Travelling to Argentia, you’ll find a heavy industrial park established on the rocky shores of Placentia Bay. Well-travelled roads criss-cross over beaten down gravel and paved areas. Warehouses are interspersed over the region or situated along the shore. The pulsing heartbeat of fast-paced business is a reflection of its life-giving energy. Looking around, you’d think nothing remains of the community that had existed there for hundreds of years. But you’d be wrong.
Taking A Step Into the Past
Demasduit was a Beothuk woman. This image was crreated in 1819 (Source: Wikipedia)
Over the centuries, many have passed over the Argentia peninsula. There’s no doubt the touch of the Beothuk could be found on the undulations of the landscape. The first Europeans to arrive in the Placentia area were Basques by the 16th century. Although, there’s little to indicate they traversed the Argentia peninsula. Much like the Beothuk, only our imaginations can conjure their presence now.
When the Europeans settled in Argentia, it became known as Little Placentia. It developed into a thriving herring and salmon-fishing port. Originally from places such as Ireland, Scotland as well as Britain, the people of the region made a living fishing and tending their gardens.
Silver was discovered there in the late nineteenth century. While nothing much arose from the discovery, it will hold lasting memory. In 1904, in honour of its silver lode, Little Placentia’s name was changed to Argentia. 1
Life no doubt went on over the next years, much as it had in the past. By the census year of 1921, Argentia’s population had risen to 477 from 392.
U.S. ships and aircraft in Little Placentia Sound, Argentia, 1942. (Source: Wikipedia).
It was with the arrival of the Second World War when Argentia radically changed. The coming of the Argentia Naval station utterly transformed the community which would soon disappear below a military base. Heavily engineered roads and airfields soon transformed the region. By 1941, gone were the meadows interspersed with clapboard houses surrounded by gardens. It was warehouses, barracks and office buildings that came to define the landscape.
It was this way for decades. At least a couple of generations of Newfoundlanders made a living care of Uncle Sam. By the late 1960s, Argentia had begun to wind down. Then, with the arrival of 1994, it all came to an end. The United States pulled out, eventually leaving the area for the Port of Argentia.
Although it took some time to gather speed, the Argentia Management Authority, now the Port of Argentia, took control of the area. Ably, they transformed it into a well-oiled business. To this day, the Port of Argentia welcomes businesses to take up some real estate in the industrial park.
The Presence of Argentia
Despite the absence of community of Argentia on the landscape, it exists powerfully and quite poignantly for many of the former inhabitants and descendants. Collectively, they feel a spirit of place, one nestled in their hearts and minds.
In distant Roman times, the landscape was replete with sacred places where people could commune with a particular spirit. Now, in a more secular world, it is the meaning of the place that stirs individuals. A spirit of place is regarded as the unique, distinctive and cherished aspects of a place. In this sense, places such as Argentia have a spirit imbued by the lives that had been lived there for well over a century.
Talk of Argentia evokes feelings that, for some, may cast their minds back to a time only distantly remembered. However, the spirit of the place is nurtured through a collective memory. Together, members of the community quilt together memories of Argentia. And it remains vibrantly alive through story, music, paintings and so on.
These are all expressions that share, strengthen, and invigorate the spirit of place. Elements of place such as memories and meanings flood into the mind. This spirit of place is strong, capable of transporting people to another time. A rock is no longer just a rock, for instance, but the place where children of the community may have met to play ball. At a particular contour of the land was perhaps the former location of a home. Most importantly, thoughts of these places will further fortify the connections to place, even if that place is now confined to collective memory. Moreover, the connections amongst the people will be enhanced.
Connecting is meaningful in all respects, drawing on sentiments such as love, respect, kindness, and compassion. (Source: Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay).
Connections are life-giving. Myriad elements can suture those connections—memories of a laugh, a particular song, a poem, someone’s quirky personality, features in the landscape, maybe even memorable pieces of furniture. All those remembering will nod their heads and smile knowingly. It’s powerful and transporting.
In so doing, those connections are sometimes a subtle and at other times potent sign of belonging. To feel one belongs within a group is something for which many strive. If attained, it quietly affirms things such as acceptance, understanding, comradery and support. They are all sentiments individuals who feel a deep sense of belonging can take for granted. To belong is a deeply moving feeling.
When one goes to Freshwater Community Centre, the walls are covered with pictures of homes and other buildings that were, at one time, a part of Argentia. The buildings had to be destroyed in order to make way for the United States Naval Base. However, those pictures are conduits to a past with which all who feel a sense of belonging will be able to gather meaning. They kindle feelings of affiliation, love, and respect, all contributing to Argentia’s spirit of place.
Image of Garden Gate (Source: Amazon.ca)
In Garden Gate, a recent book by Darrell Duke, he paints a picture of the host of challenges the people of Argentia experienced when the United States arrived. The story evokes the feelings generated by what had occurred—injustice, tragedy, sadness and resolve. Magically, it is able to gently buttress the spirit of place for those who feel a connection and belonging to Argentia.
Even for those not connected, Mr. Duke’s story triggers many of the same feelings it does for those who have a connection to Argentia. These are sentiments with which many can identify. After all, around the world, people have lived through similar circumstances as befell Argentia in 1940. While it may not nurture the same sense of belonging, it will certainly bolster a sprit of place.
Argentia in the Present
While the Argentia to which Darrell Duke refers is long gone, in many ways it isn’t. A community often exists by virtue of its address, the buildings, fences, and roads leaving a tangible footprint. But overall, our communities are truly built from the shared meanings, beliefs, and memories that at one time may have animated the host of walls and clapboard. Even though there is no built presence of Argentia, it will continue to boast a lively presence in both heart and mind.
The spirit of the place is in the hearts and minds of its former inhabitants. In reading a poem regarding Argentia, listening to a story or song, we are touched by its spirit. These are elements defying our five senses and yet there is a spirit that will enliven a place we will always know as Argentia.
Of course, we all get up on the wrong side of the bed sometimes. As far as I can tell, my periodic irritability is not due to any difficulty I’ve had with any one or any thing—certainly nothing that’s obvious to me. I’m in my early fifties and so, it’s likely due to the hormonal bonanza we experience at this time of our lives. So, who knows , maybe I can lay it at that door.
At any rate, when I slowly roll out of the wrong side of my bed, I am weighted down with everything I feel is going wrong in my life. It’s a frame of mind, make no mistake. The cup is half empty, damn it. I’ll refuse to hear anything otherwise. That’s the nature of my mood, I’m afraid.
I go about robing myself in an array of perspectives coloured in shades of sorrow and melancholy. It’s important to emphasise, it is only a perspective. At any other time, the same idea or thought would be clothed in a far brighter and spirited manner. But not right now when the sky seems to be falling and nothing is going right in my life.
Is There a Way Out?
And I’m not alone in my dilemmas. Many of us are tripped up by periodic blues. Given the problem, how do we wrest ourselves from the doleful embrace? Sure, time is all that’s sometimes required. All we need to do is maybe have something to eat. I’m sure you’ve heard of this dilemma. Researchers have identified a tie between our blood sugar and our mood.
Sometimes we have little comments, ready and waiting, that merely compound the murkiness surrounding us. They’re the words further hurtling us towards a constant re-play of everything that’s gone wrong in our lives. We focus on how this always happens and how we’ll never be … fill in the blank. It never ends, until our fixated attention is somehow pried away from that mesmerising bottomless pit.
Following the Words of a Tunneler
For me, my sensibilities are shaken into place by a quote from a soldier. I’d been doing some research on the First World War and encountered this corner of history. When I looked a little more deeply, I realised it was much larger than I’d initially realised.
The soldier was a tunneler. I’d not be surprised if that doesn’t ring a bell, as they weren’t the most well known members of our past. Still, they hold an undeniably honourable place. Often it was miners who were enlisted to build the tunnels below the fighting that occurred on the surface—No Man’s Land. Three simple words that can’t quite capture the horrific reality of the place.
The explosion of the mine under Hawthorn Ridge Redoubt, 1 July 1916 (Photo 1 by Ernest Brooks).
During the First World War, the idea was for their men to tunnel below the enemy and then place explosives in the mines. This was expertly done beneath Hawthorn Ridge Redoubt on the Western Front at the beginning of the Battle of the Somme. It was this explosion that was supposed to have started the battle.1 At times enemy tunnelers would encounter one another below the surface and a skirmish would ensue.
The tunnelers had to keep a wary ear out for any mining that was taking place. Both sides of the war employed these tactics. As a result, those on the British side would employ various devices in order to hear. One such method involved forcing a stick into the ground and then holding the other end between their teeth. This permitted one to sense any vibrations resulting from the digging of the opposing side.
Understandably, the entire process was highly stressful. One would expect anyone involved to be miserable and of a dark humour. So, I was astonished when I read how archaeologists had encountered the words scrawled on a tunnel’s walls. Given the circumstances, the words would seem so out of place. Yet, amidst the maelstrom, William Carr was able to share astoundingly poignant and touching words. He wrote,
“If in this place you are detained, don't look around you all in vain, but cast your net and you will find, that every cloud is silver lined. Still.”
And it’s those words that always give me pause. While we may feel confined or imprisoned in whatever dilemma we’re experiencing, we’re not to worry. For within the darkness, there will always be a light shining through, William Carr assures us. So, hold fast, he says. His thoughts were clearly not on his own troubles. He only sought to ease the path for those who followed.
If this man was able to evoke such beauty and majesty while all hell was erupting overhead, then surely I can endure the tiny, by comparison, challenges with which I find myself contending. This is certainly not to imply that some of the things with which we’re contending are of no concern.
What we’re facing may very well be on par with the challenges of William Carr—perhaps more. Still, his words are intended as a gentle push forward. Every now and then, we’re brought down by some one or some thing. At other times, as I’ve suggested, we have no idea why we’re feeling down. It just happens sometimes.
In any case, there may be a period when we’re feeling beleaguered and down. But hopefully, we can remember words such as those of William Carr. They remind us of our strength, courage, and fortitude. We recall how, with a little perseverance, we’ll discover a path out of the holes in which we find ourselves — sometimes ones we’ve dug for ourselves. These words and phrases offer us leverage, the firm support we need to free our selves.
So, sure, maybe we’ve just gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. But there’s no need to stay there for long.
Endnotes
1Things didn’t seem to go according to plan, as the order for the explosion was given ten minutes before the infantry attack, thus providing the Germans with a heads up that attack was imminent.
Nestled between Sacred Heart church and the former St. Edward’s Elementary is Our Lady of Angels/Presentation Convent. It’s now a well loved building quietly enriching the Placentia area landscape. No doubt all the memories are not fond, for the experience of some at convent school is mixed. Nonetheless, its presence remains a recognition of not only its longevity. There are also merits to its deep reach into the history of the Placentia area.
Much of its former locale has dramatically changed. St. Edward’s School has both come and gone leaving a green space again along the front of the convent. Likewise, it is surrounded now by modern homes that emerged as the decades passed.
Origins of the Convent
It was Nano Nagle who, in 1776, in Cork, Ireland, founded the Congregation of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Four of their members had journeyed to Newfoundland in 1833, the goal being, at the behest of Bishop Michael Anthony Fleming, to establish schools.
Accordingly, with the encouragement of Reverend Edward Condon, Our Lady of Angels Convent was built in 1864 for the Presentation Sisters, an organisation which was led by Sister Mary de Sales Condren.
It was a two and a half story building which boasted architectural qualities which lent to its uniqueness. Hence, its current contribution to the heritage of Canada, Newfoundland and Labrador in addition to the Placentia area was undeniable. Hence, Canada’s Historic Places recognised it as a place of note.
Constructed primarily of locally quarried stone, the designers and builders also added other touches which collectively signify its undeniable value. For instance, a keystone trim helps to accentuate the windows, a feature that works in accordance with the quoining used at the corners of the building.
Intangible Heritage
Alongside being an attribute to the built heritage of the Placentia area, its history also honours the less palpable, yet no less fervent intangible heritage of the town. For instance, the name “Our Lady of Angels” is a nod to the Franciscan friars of Quebec who established the first monastery in Newfoundland and Labrador in 1689.
At this time, the Second Bishop of Québec, Jean St. Vallier helped lay the groundwork for an ecclesiastical presence in Plaisance (Placentia). In so doing, St. Vallier also established the first Newfoundland parish, “Our Lady of Angels.”
Since the initial period of occupation of the Placentia area in the 1500s by the Basque and later, the establishment of the French garrison in 1662, Roman Catholicism has held an important place in the Placentia area. Our Lady of Angels Convent stands as a symbol of this quality.
And no matter how modernised our lives become, it will always be worth our while to take a step back. The lives led in the past are not as different from our own as we may think. Education and religion remain two key lifeways that are still strongly with us today.
The Presentation Convent is merely a symbol of how it was done a little more than a century and a half ago. Looking at buildings such as the convent provides us with an inkling of the values of the day. Do we have anything to learn? What is it they did we’d like to emulate? Perhaps there are elements we’d like to leave in the past. In any case, history will always be a keen navigator for the future.
When the Proclamation was sent out on August 22, 1914, a few weeks after the United Kingdom had declared war on Germany, the request was simple yet intense — “King and Country Need You.” And it was men such as Franz Lüttge, a resident of Placentia, Newfoundland1 who responded unhesitatingly. He had been a member of the Canadian militia and given this experience, he knew he must answer the call. However, Lüttge’s well-intentioned offer to potentially give his life for the Empire would bring him face-to-face with growing fear and uncertainty. It was a sign of the times.
Volunteering for the War
Franz Lüttge, a Canadian of German origin, was from Manitoba. A man of “means and leisure,” he had decided to settle in Placentia near the marine cable station that was situated along what is now known as the Orcan River. It is entirely possible his mother was his connection with Placentia. She was a Smith.
When Lüttge decided to volunteer, recognising how his name might be a problem, he enlisted using the name of his mother. He no doubt also opted to exchange Franz for Francis. It was best to avoid any unnecessary and unwanted scrutiny. After all, the origins of his name were linked to the country whom he would be fighting. Regardless, his loyalty to the British Empire was unquestionable. He was Canadian and like Newfoundlanders and Labradorians, he wanted to support and fight for the “Mother Country.”
Struggling to Stand for Your Country
Lüttge could not have known that just one day after the declaration of war on August 4, the United Kingdom had taken measures to ensure its safety and that of its colonies. The threat of spies was considered to be great. Thus, on August 5, 1914, the Aliens Restriction Act 1914 was passed. This gave British governments legislative power to deal with “enemy aliens.” One of the clauses in this Act prohibited enemy aliens from changing their names. This would prove to be a downfall for Lüttge.
Although he had sought to join the First Newfoundland Contingent, fears and incrimination would ultimately block his attempts. The fact that he had changed his name was the primary concern. While Lüttge was Canadian, his name spoke otherwise and threw open the door to the fears and paranoia that had come to define the period. After discovering his true name, his fellow recruits objected to his presence.
Germanophobia was widespread in British society and it was only normal for this to have spread to colonies such as Newfoundland. Despite his attempts to join the First Newfoundland Contingent, he was asked to resign from the regiment.
The Push for Patriotism
Meanwhile, the leaders in Placentia were strongly urging the young men of the district to fight for their King and Country and ironically, follow the lead of men such as Lüttge. Early in November, a meeting, “packed with a loyal and enthusiastic audience,” took place at the Placentia Courthouse. In attendance were individuals such as the Rt. Reverend Monsignor Reardon, F.J. Morris, Secretary of the Patriotic Nominating Committee of St. John’s and a member of the Recruiting Committee.
As reported on November 5, 1914 in The Evening Telegram, F.J. Morris made a passionately patriotic speech, exclaiming how the time had arrived for Newfoundland to stand shoulder to shoulder with Britain. He was sure that the young men of Placentia-St. Mary’s district would be more than willing to answer the “call to the Motherland.” Morris expressed his faith in the young men of the region. He spoke fervently, stating how “it could never be said of a Newfoundland fisherman that he was afraid to go to sea.” Leading community members responded with a resolution that was unanimously passed.
BE IT THEREFORE RESOLVED, That we the citizens of the Ancient Capital of His Majesty’s Oldest Colony, in this patriotic public meeting convened, hereby individually and collectively pledge ourselves to aid and encourage our young fishermen from all parts of the district to promptly enlist in the Royal Naval Reserve and rally round the old flag.
Men such as Franz Lüttge believed wholeheartedly in this sentiment.
Realities of the Times
So much so that in December 1914, he reapplied to be a part of the Second Contingent. Although, on December 7, 1914, the Right Honourable Lewis Harcourt informed Sir Walter Davidson, the Governor of Newfoundland of Franz Lüttge. He explained how Lüttge had “taken up his residence at Placentia.” Harcourt informed Davidson how Lüttge had been “informally watched since his arrival in Newfoundland.” However, neither the correspondence or the behaviour of Lüttge suggested anything of an “incriminatory nature.”
Nonetheless, the attempt of Lüttge to join the Second Contingent was not to be. The spy fever and distrust would remain an insurmountable barrier—the unfortunate realities of the times. Lüttge was kept under police observation and still on July 22, 1915, he was considered a “suspect at large.” Then, two and a half weeks later, Franz Lüttge was ordered to leave the colony of Newfoundland.
Like thousands of other Newfoundlanders and Labradorians, the men of the Placentia area willingly gave years of their young lives to “King and Country.” Too often, it was life itself they freely gave. There were 34 from Argentia, Dunville, Jerseyside, Placentia, and Southeast Placentia who did so. And no doubt, if given the chance, men such as Franz Lüttge would have done likewise.
Sources:
“Governor’s Office — Copies of Despatches” GN 1/1/7 The Rooms Provincial Archive
“Recruiting Meeting in Placentia” November 5, 1914 in The Evening Telegram, p.7
Endnotes:
At the time, Newfoundland was still a country and Labrador was not officially a part of that country. So, for this piece, I’m only using ‘Newfoundland’ alone.
I can’t quite remember when I first crossed paths with him. All I do know is when I did, I took an immediate liking to Harry. If anything, I liked his grit, for lack of a better word. Maybe it was a kind of chemistry, the kind that spans the decades, penetrating time itself.
You see, Harry was born almost two centuries ago. Now, the only remains left of his life, any hint of the strong and lamenting heart that guided this vibrant man, are a couple of tattered old diaries and several letters secured in an The Rooms archive in St. John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador.
Early Years
His name was actually Thomas Henry Verran, but most knew him as just Harry. And the more I learned about him—the things he did and what he expressed—the more I came to respect and admire him. There, amidst his words was an honesty that gained passage through a deep set of values and principles. It’s always the same old things that seem to draw us magnetically to another life.
That is the odd thing about history and lives from the past, those whose paths we just happen to cross. We meet people in the pages of a book, journal, or diary. While we read about them or pour over the words these individuals scrolled or scribbled onto a page countless years ago, in some cases, they rise from the page and come to life for us. And that’s how it was for me and Harry.
Image of an old tin mine in England (Image by Brian from Pixabay).
When I was first introduced to Harry, I learned he was a miner—to his very marrow. He came from Cornwall, England which rests at the core of mining country. Gifted geologically millions of years ago, the region around Cornwall is dotted with an assortment of copper and tin mines. As everyone knows, mining is no walk in the park. It is almost always hard, not to mention dangerous work. Still, for the people of Cornwall, mining was a part of their very souls.
So, growing up in Cornwall, Harry unsurprisingly went into mining and it was here where his life took a very different and unexpected turn. This is where he had met a man by the name of Major Ripley who was part of a company known as Ripley and Company of New York. Harry would be thrust headlong into a new world.
Beginning a New Life
Major Ripley was involved in a mine in La Manche, located at the head of Placentia Bay, Newfoundland and Labrador. The La Manche mine was owned by the New York, Newfoundland and London Telegraph Company that had been incorporated by the wealthy American businessman Cyrus Field.
Cyrus Field (Source: Wikipedia).
Cyrus Field had become involved in the telegraph that countries such as Newfoundland,1 much like the United States, were stringing across the land. The first landing of the telegraph was intended to be in Placentia Bay and while doing work on the telegraph at La Manche, Field’s workers had encountered evidence of lead.
Not one to ignore an unexpected stroke of luck, Field took measures to exploit the mineral treasure. He enlisted the assistance of his brother Matthew Field, Major Ripley, and a man by the name of Mr. Crockett to manage the mine. After Crockett failed to yield any promising results following an excavation at the site, the feeling was they required more professional assistance. This is when Major Ripley decided to take a trip to the middle of mining country in England where he found help in the name of Harry Verran.
When Harry came to Newfoundland, the young country was undergoing considerable change. It was at a time in the nineteenth century when, fresh after being granted responsible government in 1855 by Britain, Newfoundland was stretching its wings. The idea had been for Newfoundland to further exploit its rich mineral resources in its interior. The leaders of the day felt that such an enterprise would work well with the fishery, which had hit on some hard times. So, there was a real push to develop industries like mining in order to help diversify and boost the burgeoning economy.
A Life in Words and Letters
My search to learn more about Harry would eventually take me to the provincial archive at The Rooms in St. John’s. On a peaceful sunny day in the archive, I found myself paging through Harry’s diary. Along with a collection of letters and other documents, his diary was really one of the only testaments to his life. Leafing through his letters and his well-thumbed diary, his strong spirit wove through each of his words periodically transporting me to the places about which he wrote. His thoughts were vibrant and intense in his various entries, the lively touch of humanity was only just barely contained in the swirls and scrolls of his writing.
Diaries are precious and often poignant keys to another time and place, often opening a doorway, however incomplete, to the heartbeat of a period. For me, it offered a much more valuable alternative perspective to what is sometimes delivered to us as a simple collection of encyclopaedic facts, observations, and critiques. But reading Harry’s old letters and diary was different.
I was able to catch a glimpse of his life. To be sure, it was a life predominantly filled with the various everyday events that punctuated his daily routine. But every now and then, I was touched by the intimacy of the comments captured in his diary—the passions, frustrations, the sheer anger and vehemence, as well as the delight of this man. Here were the private thoughts of a man whose words were intended for his eyes alone. Still, even after all these years, it was possible to feel the emotions springing forth from the page.
Coming to Newfoundland
After travelling to Newfoundland, Harry had made his journey to the Placentia area, writing about his experiences in his diary. On Thursday, the 24th of September, 1857, “… at 5 PM arrived at the South East 5 miles from Placentia — had tea, then left on foot with my Guide for Placentia arrived ½ p 7 PM. We could not take the waggon [sic] owing to the state of the Road.” Having made it to Placentia, Harry must have met with Mr. Ripley and others from the mine. After doing so, he likely began to make assessments and plans regarding the approach he wanted to take with the mine.
Harry opted to use a method of mining known as room and pillar mining, an approach in use for over two thousand years. It was a mining strategy that had worked for various other minerals—coal, potash, and lead. The mineral would be taken out, leaving pillars to support the overburden. It made sense. Everything seemed to be progressing well enough. But eventually, things began to change. There was a push for more. And by 1858, I could tell in his writings Harry must have been feeling pressure from his employers.
Making a Stand
In his diary, Harry shared the circumstances that surrounded the mining effort at La Manche. There was no mistaking his emphatic and emotional words— “From the 7th of June, it will be clearly shown that they were still not satisfied by their own extravagant way on the surface that he Ripley began interfering with the underground work. The cry lead. What, to assist to pay their infernal extravagance and foolery.” His words almost burst from the page. Impressed by what struck me as the thoughts of a man of principles, he seemed guided by a strong sense of right and wrong. There was a proper way to proceed, especially in terms of mining. To Harry, there were lines that could not be crossed.
His diary was full of his exasperation and discontent with the state of the mine and its management. He seemed to continually run counter to the wishes of Major Ripley: “July 9th—1858—told Ripley in presence of Mr. Bouton my intention of leaving the mines unless his partner, the Celebrated Civil Engineer did, for I would manage all or none—for seeing such infernal rascally extravagance and curse of money. I would not . I am fully determined to do one or the other.” (Verran’s emphasis) I had no idea who the “Celebrated Civil Engineer” happened to be. Given the sarcasm dripping from his words, it must have been one of his employers.
The more I read Harry’s diary, the more I appreciated his perspective and the predicament in which he had found himself. It always felt like, in his eyes, mining had been more of a calling, the pursuit of the minerals almost being akin to a sacred quest. Such a sentiment could not be sullied by the blatant and raw pursuit of profit.
Unfortunately, the spectre of money at any cost was never far from the operation with decisions being entertained that would force Harry to finally make a stand. Apparently, Ripley had hired a train in July 1858 he needed to be filled for a shipment to New York. What they had mined was insufficient and so, he requested Harry remove some of the “pillars” in order to obtain more of the ore. To sweeten the deal, Ripley had even offered Harry a letter that would absolve him of any blame, should there have been a cave in.
But they asked too much of him. Above all, Harry was a miner and was unwilling to betray what was almost a code amongst miners to not only be true to their quest for the mineral they sought. They must also never fail to respect the risks every man who goes underground undertakes as part of that pursuit—never. I was not surprised by his response — “… they wanted to discharge the miners and put Newfoundlanders underground. I told Ripley I did not come to Newfoundland to make graves for them, for working them underground. I would not.” Elated, I felt his words were filled with a fervour as he steadfastly refused their requests. His words ensured the growing respect I had for this man, for his determination to hold true to his morals. He did so despite being told he need not worry about taking personal responsibility for the consequences of his actions. It would have been so easy to do as Ripley had suggested.
As far as Harry was concerned, the mine, which was an “exceedingly good mineral property” was being horribly mismanaged. I felt a sympathy for him, as he seemed trapped by the misguided intentions of the mine owners. Part of a letter he had written to a Forrest Shepherd, a scientist from the United States captured the sentiment — “For never was there any mine in the world, ‘money’ so extravagantly recklessly and squandered away which was the sole reason for my leaving the mine. [T]hey should have made, at least while at work, £12,000 profits. Excuse me it is too much to tell you all, for if I began writing, it would take 6 months.”
Feelings of Resignation
Reading these diary entries, at times both private and intimate, I felt privy to feelings Harry could not share with others and only with himself. Throughout his diary, he had consistently expressed dissatisfaction with the entire endeavour at La Manche. And he was quite correct when he wrote, “The fact of the matter in this, the abominable manner which this property was conducted by these men. It would never prosper.” It would prove to be impossible for him to continue and he “ … left on the 11th July 1858 in disgust — A happy happy release. Oh yes I thought — the next day I was in another world on my way to St. John’s.” I read those words and I was overjoyed. While this man lived and died decades before I was born, I felt a sense of pride he had made this stand.
Harry actually went on to work at another mine in the Placentia area. However, he again began to run afoul of the same behaviour. It was no doubt for the same reason, the mine owner having expectations Harry was unprepared to meet.
Close to when he first arrived in Placentia on the 26th September, 1857, Harry had actually met the woman whom he would go on to marry. He wrote how he was “introduced by my guide to a M Sweetman. Invited to dine. Accepted. Spent the day very comfortable.” This had been Mary Josephine Sweetman, the only child of Robert F. Sweetman. Sweetman was the fourth and final generation to operate the fishery firm that had been started in the previous century. For a time, Harry apparently also worked for his father in-law. After marrying, he and his wife went on to have three children. Life must have settled into a pleasant hum of work and family life.
But by 1866, Harry had to leave Newfoundland in search of work. He eventually travelled to various countries in Africa and to Spain where he worked for an English mining company. Not long afterwards, he chose to travel, not back to Newfoundland, but to Cornwall—back home.
The likely reason is simply because he knew he was dying. Having been a part of mining for his entire life, I’m sure he would’ve recognised the invariable cough he had developed. It was the bane of any miner’s life at the time—silicosis. It may very well have already started when he was still in Newfoundland. He must have known what was happening to him and how he hadn’t much time left.
Farewell to a Good Man
The words were chillingly brief and matter-of-fact—No. 728. When buried, 6th June, 1869; Name, Thomas Henry Verran; Abode, Royal Hotel in Market Street, Town of Falmouth; Description, Engineer; In which portion of the Burial Ground Buried, Unconsecrated; Age, 42 years. This was all that was left. Reading the burial record, it seemed so unjust for man of Harry’s principles and strong character to die at such a young age and so alone, none of his family by his side. It sheered against this vigorous and spirited man whom I had met in the pages of his diary. Even though he had died long ago, almost two centuries later, there was a lingering feeling of regret and sadness.
I remember thinking how one day, I’m going to travel to Falmouth, England and try to find the place where he was buried. Maybe in my small way, I can offer some sort of recognition of this man, a belated remembrance of an all too brief life.
Throughout our lives we cross paths with countless people who make an impression on us, sealing themselves into our memories. Like Harry, some may be long gone. Still, their words conjure their spirits and for a moment, they seem to come to life. That is how it was for me and Harry Verran. He will forever have my respect and I can only offer these words as an honour to a man who it was a true pleasure to meet. Rest in peace, my friend.
Blenheim House in the nineteenth century in Placentia NL.
Modern duplexes now sit on a location in Placentia where years ago, the Sweetman family built Blenheim House. This would’ve been in the latter eighteenth or early nineteenth century. The Sweetmans were a noteworthy and eminent merchant family in Placentia during the 18th and 19th centuries.
The name chosen for the house in Placentia was identical to Blenheim Lodge, the estate of the Sweetmans in County Waterford in Ireland. The Sweetman family was well-established on both sides of the Atlantic.
Rise of the Sweetmans
The Sweetman mercantile firm in Placentia, at one time known as Saunders and Sweetman, developed from a business started in Placentia by Richard Welsh in 1753. Richard Welsh hailed from New Ross, Ireland and eventually founded and controlled a successful merchant firm based on the fishery. The success and strength of the firm was later fortified by marriages that united the three daughters of Richard Welsh with wealthy businessmen Paul Farrell, William Saunders and Roger Sweetman.
Photograph of Richard Welsh’s grave marker in Placentia, NL (Source: Lee Everts).
After the death of Richard Welsh in 1770, it was William Saunders who took control of the firm. He did so with the assistance of his brother, Thomas Saunders, David Welsh, Richard Welsh’s son, and Paul Farrell. However, with the untimely deaths of Paul Farrell and then David Welsh, both in 1774, William Saunders became the sole owner of the business. At this time, it became the William Saunders and Company.
Saunders and Sweetman
The Sweetman family and the Saunders were closely linked,1 as explained in a letter to Roger Sweetman of Wexford in the spring of 1788 from William Saunders. In it Saunders says he will “pay strict attention to the trade, hoping to carry it on in an amicable way and profitable for the benefit of all parties.” Saunders goes on to comment on prospects for the fishery, expressing the hope that Pierce Sweetman will arrive soon in Placentia. He sends regards to Roger Sweetman’s family and signs himself “assured friend and honourable servant.”
The grave marker of John Hamilton, died 26th January, 1826 (Source: Tom O’Keefe).
Pierce Sweetman, the son of Roger Sweetman and Mary Welsh soon followed in the footsteps of his grandfather. He joined William Saunders in order to learn the business. Then, following the death of William Saunders in 1788, his brother Thomas Saunders became director. Things had progressed so that Sweetman was a formal partner by the fall of 1789. At this point, the name of the Company shifted to Saunders and Sweetman.2
Development of Blenheim House
Richard Welsh possessed a “dwelling housing” in Placentia.3 It’s likely the Blenheim House was built on the same location in the latter eighteenth or early nineteenth century.4 By 1810, it and its belongings were actually being auctioned off.5
Roger Forstall Sweetman, Pierce Sweetman and Julia Forstall’s son arrived in 1813 in Placentia to take control of the business. Thomas Saunders had died earlier in 1808, leaving the Sweetmans in complete control of the business.
As Roger F. Sweetman continued to reside in the property, it is likely that it was his family who had gone on to buy the Blenheim House when it was auctioned off.
Except for a departure from Placentia between 1842 and 1850, following the death of his father, Blenheim House remained the home of the Sweetmans. In 1859, the firm of Roger F. Sweetman became insolvent. A few years later on the 27th November, 1862 Roger F. Sweetman passed away.
Later Years of Blenheim House
Harold Kalman explains that after the Sweetmans departed, the house was used “… as the first Placentia cable office of the Anglo-American Telegraph Company.”6 He noted that its architecture consisted of a “double-pile plan with a central hall, two chimneys, and a hipped roof.” The timing is uncertain, but they no doubt took place after Roger F. Sweetman’s death in the latter 19th century.
Blenheim House was demolished in the 1930s, a new house being built by a descendant, James Verran.7 Its absence does not detract from the significant role the Sweetman family has played in the history of Placentia. It was in the 18th century, when figures such as the Sweetmans and by extension, other notable figures such as the Welsh and Saunders families became intertwined in the history of the Placentia area.
While the wood, bricks and mortar of Blenheim House are now gone, there is still a tangible touchstone of the role the Sweetmans played in Placentia history. At some point during the life of Blenheim House, an interesting and odd thing occurred. It was linked to someone by the name of John Hamilton. Mystery surrounds Hamilton, as there are many questions tied to his true identity.
A quirky thing happened. Apparently, the headstone intended for John Hamilton was used as the doorstep for Blenheim House. When this occurred is unknown. Although the headstone states John Hamilton passed away on the 18th January, 1826.
“The stone was then sent over as ballast in a ship owned by a Placentia merchant named Sweetman. When the stone arrived in Placentia there must have been some problems with payment or otherwise, for instead of using it as a grave marker, the stone was used as a front doorstep for the merchant’s house!”
A touch of mystery still suffuses the Placentia area in relation to Blenheim House. Nonetheless, it is doubtful anyone would deny places such as the Blenheim House are one of the primary intangible and tangible reminders of this chapter of Placentia area history.
Endnotes
1Mannion, J. 1986 “Irish Merchants Abroad: The Newfoundland Experience, 1750-1850” Newfoundland and Labrador Studies 2(2), 127-190.
4In a painting by J.S. Meres entitled “A View of the Town and Harbour of Placentia from the Hill Aback of the Town,” the official artist who accompanied Prince William Henry in 1786 to Placentia, a dwelling house is located in the location of where Blenheim House would be built decades to come. This was likely the Dwelling House to which Richard Welsh referred.
6In A Concise History of Canadian Architecture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000 – p. 84).
7James Verran is the grandson of Harry Verran, a cornish miner, who married Mary Josephine Sweetman, the daughter of Roger F. Sweetman and his wife, Honoria Sweetman (née Sinnott).
Written in the Walls – Class Divisions in Outport Newfoundland and Labrador
“The idea which underlies all is simply this. The family constitute one community: the servants another.”
Robert Kerr, The Gentleman’s House, Or, How to Plan English Residences,
from the Parsonage to the Palace, 1871
O’Reilly House Museum is to the left of Verran House, now known as Rosedale Manor Bed & Breakfast (Source: O’Reilly House Museum, unknown; Rosedale Manor B&B, Lee Everts).
The O’Reilly House Museum and Rosedale Manor Bed and Breakfast are two well-regarded highlights of the heritage landscape in Placentia, Newfoundland and Labrador. The latter is owned by local artist Christopher Newhook and Lori Pretty, a primary schoolteacher. Meanwhile, the Placentia Area Historical Society own and operate the O’Reilly House Museum.
No one would deny these buildings, both more than a century old, reflect a dignified past. At one time, both buildings were the homes of two well-to-do families in Placentia—the Verran and O’Reilly families. However, once inside these two buildings, we soon realise how there is more to them than meets the eye.
Know Your Place
The ornate wooden features in their parlours and a grand flight of stairs rising to the top floors were not merely the trappings of the sumptuous lives led and enjoyed within these homes. They were the quiet emblems of a past strongly governed by class divisions, ones that prompted the clear separation of employers and their domestic servants. These class divisions were not only confirmed and fortified by the presence of the domestic servants and their expected deferential behaviour, they were effectively written into the walls and rooms.
The behaviour of the domestic servants was intended to diminish their presence, something that was assisted immeasurably by the physical design of the rooms, passageways, and staircases. The domestic servants could easily have gone about their daily chores in the bedrooms upstairs and not even have been noticed by the family or their visitors in the parlour below. That was the idea.
Their invisibility was no accident. It was a central goal, one that was reflected in the ideas of Robert Kerr who had given the servant-keeping world The Gentleman’s House in 1871. As the above quote expresses, the design of homes like the Verran House and the O’Reilly House was based on the doctrine of division and separation and a need to ensure the privacy of the family. It was well-meaning advice to both the so-called “middling sort,” as the middle-class was at one time known, and the upper-classes, and stemmed from a taken-for-granted understanding of a society structured by class.
Class Divisions
The class divisions that governed the upper and middle-classes had been fixed in Britain for centuries. Over this period, the upper classes—the aristocracy and the landed gentry of Britain—had customarily employed domestic servants in order to permit a life of limitless leisure and comfort. Although, by the 19th century, a growing commercial and professional component of Britain, the “middling sort,” were determined to grasp the opportunity to assail the social ladder.
Yet, membership within the ranks of the middle class was anything but secure. The idea of a middle class often defied clear definition with the notion of a “lower middle class” and an “upper middle class.”1 Given this ambiguity, families were determined to demonstrate their inclusion in the latter. According to people such as B. Seebohm Rowntree in his Poverty: A Study of Town Life in 1908, one of the primary symbols of the middle class that distinguished it from the “working class” was in fact the keeping of a domestic servant.
Class Divisions in Newfoundland
In Newfoundland,2 keeping a servant to do things like cooking and cleaning was nothing new. Already in the early 1700s, some of the female migrants in Newfoundland had found work as servants.3 Much like in Britain, for some of the less fortunate migrants, working as a domestic servant offered at least a meagre reprieve from the miseries of poverty. The population of Newfoundland was growing and with it, there were an increasing number of people such as the Verran and O’Reilly families who represented the professional class.
Henry Verran was the son of Harry Verran, a mining engineer, and Mary Josephine Verran neé Sweetman who was the only child of Roger F. Sweetman and his wife Honora Sweetman née Sinnott. Sweetman was to be the final owner of a highly successful fishing firm that had survived for four generations and had once spanned the globe. Given their place amongst the more affluent members of the community, the Verrans built their Second Empire home in 1893 along the laneway that skirts the Orcan River, a channel flowing below the heavily treed and rocky outcrops of Mount Pleasant.
Almost a decade later, in 1902, a Queen Anne Victorian style house was built a short distance away along the Orcan River for magistrate William O’Reilly and his family. Like the Verrans, William O’Reilly, the son of the previous magistrate, was securely a member of the middle class. For both families, the organisation and structure of their homes would be designed to mark their position. As expected, a domestic servant, the middle-class badge of honour, was also a part of the arrangements.
Maid-of-All-Work
Unlike the battery of female and male servants, sometimes numbering over 100, who served in the big houses of the aristocracy and the landed gentry in Britain, many of the middle-class homes only had one female servant. In all likelihood, the domestic servant who worked for the Verrans and the one employed by the O’Reilly family was from the Placentia area. Similar to those in Britain, she would have been a general servant or as the position had come to be known, a ‘maid-of-all-work.’ Unlike the larger houses that employed more than one domestic servant to act, each as a cook, parlour maid, housemaid, and housekeeper, the maid-of-all-work did just as her title suggested—all the work. According to Mrs. Isabella Beeton in The Book of Household Management, first published in 1861, “The general servant, or maid-of-all-work, is perhaps the only one of her class deserving of commiseration: her life is a solitary one, and in some places, her work is never done.” It must have been a hard life.
Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management (By https://wellcomeimages.org/indexplus/obf_images/41/48/a8689d18d643fbf0d65aafb2c367.jpgGallery: https://wellcomeimages.org/indexplus/image/L0042710.html, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=36107779)
In completing the long list of daily chores that defined a typical day for the domestic servants of the Verran House and the O’Reilly House, they would have been governed by principles that established expectations regarding their behaviour. The domestic servants certainly needed to be dutiful and subservient. And if they were ever uncertain of their place, a host of accepted rules and regulations existed to help guide and mould their behaviour.
Several manuals were published to this end. Each shared a few pointers on how to be a good domestic servant. In 1859, Mary Anne Baines, who referred to herself as “A Practical Mistress of a Household” published Domestic Servants, as They Are & As They Ought To Be, A Few Friendly Hints to Employers With Some Revelations of Kitchen Life and Tricks of the Trade. In the same year, The Servants Behaviour Book, or, Hints On Manners and Dress For Maid Servants in Small Householdsby none other than a ‘Mrs. Motherly’ also came out. It was essential to meet the needs of the burgeoning middle class, a growing market who were searching for an ideal domestic servant.
Mrs. Motherly’s The Servant Behaviour Book.
Mrs. Motherly wasted no time in being kind, yet assertive, in outlining the type of behaviour that would aid domestic servants in their work. The topics were tied to such things as, “Of The Voice and Speaking,” “Titles of Respect” and “Always Move Gently.” For instance, Mrs. Motherly explained, “Never let your voice be heard by the ladies and gentlemen of the house except when necessary, and then as little a possible.” After all, a raised voice would disturb the privacy of the employing family by declaring the presence of the domestic servant. This was to be avoided. Likewise, Mrs. Motherly felt that, the step of a servant “…should never be heard, either on the stairs or elsewhere.” These words of advice were borne of the understanding that the domestic servants were not valued in the house as living, laughing, and feeling people. They were there to do work and that was their primary and only purpose.
Designed for Division
Given their expected submissive behaviour, the domestic servants underscored the high station of the families. Nonetheless, their behaviour did not act alone. It was the physical quality and design of the doors, rooms, and staircases that told the tale. The domestic servant held an inferior position in a house divided.
The actual design of the homes acted to further diminish the presence of the domestic servant in the family compartments of the house. One of the methods of doing so was straightforward and entailed designing a house with a network of rooms, corridors and staircases intended solely for servants. These were separate from those of the family. Any sense of the domestic servant was to be limited, thus preventing the interaction of the two communities—the family and the servant. In fact, this attitude applied to all the senses.
Not only was the potential sight of a domestic servant working in the family rooms to be minimised as much as possible. As Robert Kerr clarified in The Gentleman’s House, even “the transmission of kitchen smells to the Family Apartments shall be guarded against; not merely by the unavailing interposition of a Passage-door, but by such expedients as an elongated and perhaps circuitous route, an interposed current of outer air, and so on.” Apparently, one of the many roles of the domestic servants was to protect their “superiors from defiling contact with sordid, or disordered parts of life.”4 Clearly, kitchen smells ranked as one of those sordid elements of life.
Verran House
Although the Verran House is now a bed and breakfast, it is still possible to see how the rooms and staircases were built in order to abide by the doctrine of division and separation and the attendant need to not disturb the family. One of the guest bedrooms on the ground floor in the Rosedale Manor Bed and Breakfast is located adjacent to a new kitchen that was built by the previous owners of the Rosedale. This new guest bedroom is in the same room that was once used for the original kitchen. It’s not certain whether the domestic servant lived in the residence. If so, there may have been a portion of the kitchen where she bedded down after an exhausting day. In the Verran House, as well as many other upscale homes, this was the central area for the domestic servant. Still, the bedrooms on the upper floor needed to be cleaned and tidied.
This is the central stairway at the former Verran House. Although it was closed over, the door the maid would use to access the bedrooms was at the top of the stairs (Source: Christopher Newhook).
While the home was graced with a central stairway, it was a portion of the home restricted for the use of the family. Instead, the domestic servant would have used a steep staircase, (this was later removed), that led directly from the kitchen to the upper floor landing thereby removing any need for her to use the main staircase.5 The many tasks of the domestic servant may have fulfilled a vital role in the functioning of the home. Regardless, the work needed to be accomplished in a way that was invisible to the family, all to maintain division and privacy. Despite the fact that the doorway was also removed years ago, one can imagine the servant trudging up the steep stairs, quietly opening the door onto the upper floor and then going about her business of cleaning the bedrooms and changing the bed linens.
About a decade later in 1902 and further along the lane-way from the Verran House, the O’Reilly family had moved into their new home. Much like the Verran House, it was designed to accord with the customs of division and separation, in addition to the expected relationship between the family and their domestic servant. Similar to the Verran House, the O’Reilly House was designed to not only facilitate the work of the domestic servant. Other subtle attributes and features evoked the class divisions that governed much of life at the time.
O’Reilly House
Main staircase at the O’Reilly House Museum (Source: Anita O’Keefe).
While gripping the sturdy rail, we can imagine climbing the elegant staircase from the ground floor of the O’Reilly House and upon reaching the landing on the upper floor, there are three doors, all adorned with a pearl-white doorknob. If we were to enter the one just to the left, the door reveals a narrow passageway with a room immediately to the left. This would have been the room intended for the domestic servant. It was small and separated from the main part of the house. There is a window directly opposite the door to the main house which brightens what would have otherwise been a shadowy corner of this stately home. This is part of the compartment intended for the domestic servant.
Doorknob at the O’Reilly House Museum. The difference is clearly visible, indicating it was considered an unnecessary expenditure for the maid’s quarters (Source: Christopher Newhook).
One of the most intriguing features of the O’Reilly House, one that gives an unmistakable sense of the accepted and taken-for-granted class divisions of the time was more than mundane—a doorknob. After having entered through the door leading into the compartments of the domestic servant, turning around would reveal something quite odd. Perhaps not immediately evident, it would eventually become apparent that the doorknob is not the same.
As opposed to the decorative pearl-white doorknob on the door facing the main landing, it is a plain, dark brown, workaday doorknob. However inconspicuous, this curiously different, seemingly out-of-place doorknob was very much in place. It was meant as a blatant example of the subtle and yet audible messages that buildings such as the O’Reilly House and the Verran House conveyed regarding class and social division. Ironically, two of the other rooms also had similar doorknobs. These were likely intended for the children and much like the domestic servants, it was a symbol of the divisions that existed, in this case, between children and adults during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
Narrow staircase leading from the kitchen to the maid’s quarters
at O’Reilly House (Source: Anita O’Keefe).
Adding voice to the unspoken message of division, a narrow staircase with a low ceiling that would challenge even those of average height to not bump their heads led down to the kitchen on the ground floor. The idea behind the design was to allow the domestic servant, who would have spent much of her time in the kitchen, to be able to reach her bedroom without entering the main part of the house which was designated for the family. The rear staircase and door also allowed the domestic servant access to the upper floor bedrooms that required cleaning and tidying. Beyond the distant and faint sound of her footsteps overhead, her presence would have been imperceptible to family members in the parlour or dining room on the ground floor.
Designed to Diminish
The domestic servants working for the Verran and O’Reilly families may very well have been treated with kindness. There is no way to know. Regardless, they were still part of a world in which the structure and design of the houses where they worked symbolised their humble class in comparison to their employers. It was imperative for these class distinctions to be clearly evident to anyone who crossed the threshold of these two homes, not to mention to the domestic servants themselves. All of these elements—the behaviour of the domestic servants and the physical design of the homes—worked in concert to confirm the place of these two families amongst the haloed middle-class.
Every time the domestic servant in the O’Reilly house polished the pearl-white doorknob at the top of the landing, she could not help but be reminded of her place of seeming inferiority. Likewise, whenever the domestic servant at the Verran House opened the door onto the top landing to quietly clean and tidy the bedrooms, she must not have failed to feel the implied slight to her position in the house.
Time For a Change
Nonetheless, times were bound to change and by the 1940s, fewer women would be electing to take up work as a domestic servant. Wartime, despite its attendant horrors, carried some benefits, as United States military bases such as in Argentia would come to offer far better paying and a less excessive workload for women and men alike. No doubt, improvements in education also ensured that those who may have opted for work as a domestic servant could set their sights higher.
Despite these eventual developments, already by 1921, the census showed how there were no servants listed as living with either the O’Reillys or the Verrans. Why this was the case is unknown. Perhaps the domestic servants had decided to no longer be the sought-after mark of prestige for others. It was high time to do so for themselves.
Bibliography
Baines, Mary Anne. Domestic servants, as they are & as they ought to be: a few friendly hints to employers. With some revelations of kitchen life and tricks of trade. North Street, Brighton: Curtis & Son, 1859.
Beeton, Isabella. The Book of Household Management. London: S.O. Beeton, 1866
Botting, Ingrid. “Getting a Grand Falls Job:” Migration, Labour Markets, and Paid Domestic Work in the Pulp and Paper Mill Town of Grand Falls, Newfoundland, 1905-1939” Ph.D. diss. Memorial University, St. John’s, NL, 2000.
Cullum, Linda. “Below Stairs: Domestic Service in Twentieth-Century St. John’s” In Creating This Place – Women, Family, and Class in St. John’s, 1900-1950, edited by Linda Cullum and Marilyn Porter, 89-113. Montreal & Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2014.
Davidoff, Leonore. Worlds Between: Historical Perspectives on Gender and Class. Cambridge, Polity Press, 1995.
Delap, Lucy. Knowing Their Place – Domestic Service in Twentieth Century Britain. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011.
Dussart, Fae C. “The Master Servant Relationship in 19th Century England & India” Ph.D. diss. University College London, London, England 2005.
Forestell, Nancy M. “Women’s Paid Labour in St. John’s Between the Two World Wars” Master of Arts, Memorial University, St. John’s, NL, 1987.
Handcock, W. Gordon. Soe longe as there comes noe women : origins of English settlement in Newfoundland. Milton, Ont. : Global Heritage Press 2003.
Higgs, Edward. “Domestic Servants and Households in Victorian England.” Social History, 8, no. 2, (1983): 201-210
Horn, Pamela 1995 The Rise and Fall of the Victorian Servant. (Stroud; Sutton Publishing Limited)
Horn, Pamela. Life Below Stairs in the 20th Century. Stroud: Sutton Publishing Limited, 2001.
Kealey, Linda. “Outport ‘Girls in Service’: Newfoundland in the 1920s and 1930s.” Acadiensis XLIII, no. 2, (Summer/Autumn 2014): 79-98
Kerr, Robert. The gentleman’s house; or, How to plan English residences, from the parsonage to the palace. London, J. Murray, 1871.
Lethbridge, Lucy. Servants – A Downstairs History of Britain from the Nineteenth Century to Modern Times. New York & London: W.W. Norton & Company, 2013.
Morris, William 1977 “The Role of the Domestic” #77-142
Motherly, Mrs. The servant’s behaviour book, or, Hints on manners and dress for maid servants in small households . London: Bell and Daldy, 1859.
Newfoundland. Colonial Secretary’s Office Census of Newfoundland and Labrador, 1921. St. John’s, N.L.: [s.n.], 1923
Rowntree, B. Seebohm. Poverty: A Study of Town Life. London, Macmillan and Co.; New York, Macmillan Co., 1902.
Tange, Andrea Kaston. Architectural Identities – Domesticity, Literature, and the Victorian Middle Class. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. 2010.
Credit for servant image — By WPA – This image is available from the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3b49400.
Endnotes
1Tange, Andrea Kaston Architectural Identities –Domesticity, Literature, and the Victorian Middle Class, 27
2I’m using this name as it was the name of the territory during this period. We had to wait a few decades before “Labrador” could take up its rightful place.
3Handcock, George Soe Longe As There Comes Noe Women, 92
4Davidoff, Leonore Worlds Between: Historical Perspectives on Gender and Class (Cambridge, Polity Press, 1995), 24
5Email to Linda Grimm, the former owner of Rosedale Manor Bed & Breakfast. 29 May, 2006.
Being born on Christmas Day in 1757 in Placentia, Newfoundland was perhaps a sign his life would follow a more than unusual path. Richard Brothers’ father was a gunner at Castle Hill, the local army post. As would be expected, he wanted more for his boy. So, at the age of fourteen, he sent him to Britain to join the navy.
In the navy, Brothers did well. Initially working as a midshipman, eleven years later, in 1783, he had progressed and was promoted to lieutenant. It was at this point when things began to radically change for Richard Brothers.
Things Began to Change
In 1786, he had married an Elizabeth Hassall. Perhaps everything was fine at first, but in time, his marital life began to fragment. To deal with it, he departed, seeking peace at sea and to the service. When he returned home, he discovered his wife had started a family with another man. He was likely unfazed, largely, as the meanings that shaped his life had begun to change.
For one thing, he’d found Christianity, a discovery that would go on to dramatically alter his life. When 1789 arrived, he left the military feeling it was incompatible with his new-found Christian beliefs.
By 1791, because of his beliefs—he had embraced the Quaker doctrines—he refused to swear an oath that would permit him to receive the half-pay he was due from the Admiralty. Thus, unable to accept his pension, he fell into debt and was soon sent to the workhouse for six months.
Becoming Gripped By Mental Illness
No doubt, it was at this time, he began to experience the onset of what, in modern terms, would’ve been understood as a mental illness. The zealousness he expressed for Christianity may have been the first step. However, now, he was overwhelmingly guided by his mental slippage. The trajectory of his life from here on in was largely in its grips.
It was likely some sort of delusional disorder, no doubt also tied to something like schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. But diagnosis of such an ailment would’ve been beyond the medical knowledge at the time.
Besides, even in modern times, a delusional disorder is difficult to diagnose as well as treat. The challenge is simply because the sufferer often does not realise they have a problem. This was likely the case with Richard Brothers.
Embracing Life As a Prophet
As time progressed, he also adopted the life of a prophet. He believed this was his calling. Previous to his time in the workhouse, he had to deal with the real possibility, in his eyes, that the Almighty was speaking with him. He was torn, weighed down by the godly visions thrust upon him. Still in 1791, firm in his beliefs, he had broken his sword with a solemn vow to never again use it. Apparently, he had lain on his face for three days, refusing to eat, following a vision of London’s destruction.
Joseph Moser was a member of the board of the workhouse and spoke of Richard Brothers’ odd behaviour. He referred to Brothers’ “methodical kind of madness” which resulted in various outbursts regarding religion. Very clearly, he had descended into his own world, one now thoroughly defined by predictions and visions.
Prince of the Hebrews
He grew interested in politics and continued to share his myriad visions with members of the monarchy. He was soon asked to leave the area. In his delusions, he interpreted the entire episode as a communication from his lord —“the Lord God spoke to [him] … and said — Get away, get away from this place; be under no concern, it was not you that was despised and ordered away, but me, in your person, that sent you.” (p. 106)
Brothers had been incarcerated in Newgate prison, again for refusing to swear the oath in order to obtain his pension. As before, he fell into debt. He was tormented by his visions. He found life as a prophet to be arduous. After briefly turning his back on his calling, he once again opened his arms to what would be the central force in his life.
His delusions became more intense, now, and he became convinced he was the Prince of the Hebrews and nephew of the Almighty. His mission was to lead the Jews of all nations back to the land of Israel. By 1794, he had published his ideas in A Revealed Knowledge of the Prophecies and Times, Book the First.
Growing Popularity
His writing met with great success. His delusions had clearly touched a nerve, with the book quickly selling in England and reprints in Ireland, France, and the United States.
But his life as a prophet was to be cut short. His writings were invariably interlaced with political beliefs, ones that naturally caught the eye of the authorities. For instance, grave of all, he challenged the authority of King George III. He insisted that when he’s revealed as the Prince of the Hebrews, his “crown must be delivered up to me, that all your power and authority may instantly cease.” (p. 201)
He was swiftly charged with treason. Although, his case soon shifted to one governed by medical concerns rather than political ones. There was no question. He was declared to be insane and confined.
His incarceration resulted in an increased fervour of his followers, a belief that much like Jesus Christ, he was being unjustly persecuted. His popularity grew by leaps and bounds. Ultimately, a follower, who happened to be a member of the House of Commons, a Nathaniel Halhed, had Brothers removed to a private asylum in Islington.
Coming to and End
While in Islington, he wrote various pamphlets in which he declared his prophecies. For a while, Brothers’ delusions were politically oriented and so, they harmonised with many of the complaints and beliefs at the time.
Again, he stated he would be revealed as prince of the Hebrews and ruler of the world on the 19th November, 1795. Obviously, when this date arrived and this failed to occur, his popularity began to fade. Of course, there was no chance it could happen. It was all in his mind.
Brothers no doubt struggled with bouts of depression, contending with visions and delusions that frayed at the edges of his reality. Then, as now, there is no way to prevent a delusional disorder. As happened with Richard Brothers, once it strikes and is not addressed—something that would’ve been impossible at the time—one’s life gradually spins out of control.
Life With Mental Illness
Of course, there was no way to even identify a delusional disorder when Richard Brothers was alive. The only way to address the issue was to take the condition into account when making decisions. In the case of Richard Brothers, it was the decision to send him to an asylum rather than a prison. Mind you, the one was likely little better than the other.
As far as treatment, even today, again, because those who have it, fail to appreciate there’s a problem, it’s a challenge. However, if an individual is successfully diagnosed, at present, there are different type of antipsychotics that may help those contending with the problem. Medicines such as antidepressants may also help, as well as things like psychotherapy.
In the End
Ultimately, the story of Richard Brothers is a sad one. Many people who suffer from some sort of delusional disorder encounter numerous difficulties fitting into life. When they examine their lives, they see nothing wrong. And so, they carry on, encountering the difficulties anyone can expect. Their reality could not even hope to integrate with those around them.
Richard Brothers died on the 25th January, 1824. He’d living for a respectable 67 years, most of which was sadly imprisoned in a world of his own. Still, one hopes there were moments of joy, periods of light that could keep at bay the darker shadows of his condition.
Clarke Garrett 1975 Respectable Folly: Millenarians and the French Revolution in France in England (Baltimore, Maryland: Johns Hopkins University Press), 180.
Schamber, Jon F. and Stroud, Scott R. 2000 The Prophet of Revealed Knowledge: Richard Brother, the Prince of the Hebrews and Hephew of the Almighty https://files.eric.ed.gov/fulltext/ED447520.pdf
On the 9th May, 1927, the people of the Avalon in Newfoundland and Labrador were aflutter with the news. As they often do, stories began to emerge, as everyone was trying to make some sense of what they’d seen in the sky.
They were determined. They knew they’d seen something. So several, from Baccalieu Island, Harbour Grace, Brigus, Ocean Pond and on to St. Mary’s, were even willing to give witness accounts. Little did they know their stories were tied to yet another story that had begun worlds away.
Is it Possible?
It was 1927. The United States aviation industry had already ascended into the skies, not by transporting people, but something equally crucial—mail. As The First World War drew to a close, on the 15th May, 1918, the first scheduled service began between New York City and Washington, D.C. They were making strides.
But hotel owner Raymond Orteig had his sights on something bigger. In the effervescence of Paris and New York, Orteig was buoyed by the promise of flight. And he meant business. He put up a prize for $25,000 for the first non-stop flight between New York and Paris. This time, they’d cross the ocean.
The Atlantic had been crossed already, and the stipulation had simply been to cross from somewhere in North America to somewhere in Great Britain or Ireland. Just get across. With none of the technological distinctions that would help later aviators, Captain John Alcock and Arthur Whitten Brown flew from Newfoundland over the Atlantic, landing unceremoniously in a bog in Ireland. Not so this time.
Some Noteworthy Contenders
Anyone who was anyone in aviation eyed the prize. Charles Lindbergh, an airmail pilot was determined to step up to the plate. He had found some backers from St. Louis, Missouri and so his plane was named in their honour—the “Spirit of St. Louis.” Contenders made their first attempts to get off the ground in New York, some of them fatal.
However, it was in Paris where two First World War aviation heroes took to the stage. The plan was for François Coli to make an attempt with flying ace Paul Tarascon. Unfortunately, after a dreadful accident in late 1926 left Tarascon with severe burns, he’d have to be replaced. It was an equally skilled Charles Nungusser who took his place.
L’Oiseau Blanc or The White Bird taking flight.
At 5:17 am, 8th May, 1927, flying a newly designed Levasseur PL.8 biplane named L’Oiseau Blanc or The White Bird, Coli and Nungesser took to the air. It was a gala event, escorted by four military aircraft and then spotted from the Isle of Wight, Dungarvon, and then finally over the village of Carrigholt in Ireland. They were off.
Hopes were high. There were rumours they’d been sighted over Newfoundland, along their route and so the crowds who gathered in New York awaiting their arrival were buoyed. La Presse in France had even gone so far as to print false reports of their arrival. However, time passed. And when it exceeded the projected 42 hour or so flight time they had, given their fuel load, with heavy hearts, Coli and Nungesser were considered lost.
The Search Begins
A monumental search was mounted. From around the world, governments and private organisations banded together to look for Nungesser and Coli. But it was to no avail. Meanwhile, Charles Lindbergh seized the opportunity and in his Spirit of St. Louis flew from New York, landing in Paris to boisterous crowds and a hero’s welcome.
Photograph of The Spirit of St. Louis.
While many were overflowing with joy, the search continued. The Guggenheim Foundation employed an Australian pilot by the name of Sidney Cotton to do an aerial survey. Using a newly purchased Fawker Universal, a single engine float plane, one month after the disappearance, he undertook an aerial survey. Again, to no avail.
But on the Avalon, people were sure they’d seen something. Witness accounts, officially reported to the magistrate, came from different locales on the island—Baccalieu Island down through Harbour Grace, Brigus and Ocean Pond, and then on to St. Mary’s. At least one witness account had spotted something in the sky heading west across St. Mary’s Bay, trailing what was either steam from a failing colant system or smoke from a fire.
And then on an average Monday, the 9th of May to be exact, Nicholas McGrath was doing what he normally did, trapping muskrat on Branch. He reported being startled by three rapid explosions. No doubt, looking all around, there was nothing.
Piecing it Together
The next winter found Nicholas McGrath again out hunting—caribou this time—when he found himself traversing the ice on Gull Pond. He was astonished to find pieces of light weight metal painted blue scattered around on the ground. By then the stories of the ill-fated plane had reached every corner of the globe. So began the first stories of the plane in the pond.
Anthony McGrath, then 27 was hunting caribou with Ronald McGrath, 14 years of age. They too saw a large metal piece of metal emerging out of the ice. The metal was lightweight and riveted, painted a lovely robin’s egg blue on both sides. It was attached to wood framing, something that was suggestive of The White Bird, as it was a single-bay, wood and fabric covered biplane.
They had twisted the metal until it’d broken free. Although having been hunting, they were already carrying too large a load. So, they stashed it in a tuckamore near the southwest end of the pond, hoping to return. However, when they did return the next day to retrieve it, it was no longer there.
John McGrath, who was Anthony’s older brother had also found a piece of light metal, about 18 inches, that looked like it had been torn apart, either from an explosion or having been hit very hard. He’d done an interview with The Telegram regarding The White Bird which helped to further fuel the mystery.
Later, a Patrick “Patsy” Judge from Gooseberry, a great storyteller and musician in his own right, had also found several pieces of metal in the pond. This had been back in 1948. While Patsy was determined to get to the bottom of things, he lacked the resources needed to really dig in. Luckily, he had some well-connected friends in St. John’s. By that time, many had questioned whether the pieces of metal were indeed part of The White Bird.
So, Patsy Judge asked his connections if he could discover if there were any planes that had gone missing. But there was nothing. The Bureau of Aviation for Newfoundland had no records of missing planes and Argentia told him what he had seemed to be part of the plane’s undercarriage. Although, this couldn’t be strictly true as The White Bird had jettisoned its undercarriage in France to lighten its weight.
However, there is a good description of the piece that Patsy found and later conclusions determined it had very likely been one of the steel braces on the hull of the airplane to which the undercarriage attached. It also seemed that part of the fuel tank and shattered hull crashing into the island exploding in the manner that coincided with the three sounds Nicholas McGrath heard at the time. The pieces were coming together.
The Story at Present
Ric Gillespie is the Executive Director of TIGHAR—The International Group for Historic Aircraft Recovery and their goal is to find some conclusive answers. They searched the pond in 1993 and 1994 and found three artefacts that might be from the plane crash. However, none were diagnostic.
Still, the sentiment is that the people decades ago who made affidavits actually did see something. And the gut feeling is that the plane is indeed in the pond. In the 1990s, they’d been using remote sensing to find some evidence of the plane. They’d received large anomalies such as what one would get from a large mass of metal. Everything seemed to be pointing in the right direction.
After asking the Department of Mines and Energy if there was anything significant in the pond, they were told no. TIGHAR was still getting signals. The following spring, they sent divers out after the ice had melted to check it out.
As it happens, that anomalous signal turned out to be rock. TIGHAR felt they really needed to conduct a good magnetic survey of the pond. Although, the cost was prohibitive. Enter the Discovery Channel.
The Discovery Channel produces Expedition Unknown and were interested in exploring the idea of the plane in the pond for an episode. Luckily, they were willing to pay for a magnetic survey of the pond using a drone. This would form the heart of the episode.
During the filming, they actually found a short length of copper wire, as well as a small metal disc. Again there was nothing definitive. But both the wire and disc were circumstantial, pointing to an airplane. It was promising.
Plans for the Future
When they received the results of the drone survey, they realised why it was so active magnetically. Dykes had formed millions of years ago. These are igneous1 rocks that intruded into preexisting rocks. And igneous rock is highly magnetic.
Consequently, they now realise it is pointless to do a search magnetically on account of the background noise generated by the large number of dykes. However, the alternative will be to use hand-held metal detectors (pulse induction metal detector). So, instead of measuring the magnetic field to detect the plane, they will now be detecting the presence of metal.
Another line of analysis will again take advantage of the physical characteristics of the environment, this time the sediment. A laboratory at Memorial University in Newfoundland and Labrador intends to take a core sediment sample from the pond. The idea will be to look for any material such as high levels of lead, charcoal, tiny bits of linen2 and so on that would point to the presence of the plane.
The plan is to set things in motion in the next few months. While TIGHAR has its work cut out for it, all those involved have a sense they’re on the right track.
A promising sign actually appeared on the doorstep of St. Luke’s Cultural Centre the day Ric Gillespie was doing his presentation. A copy of the song “The French Flyers: Nungesser and Coli” was left at the door.
The French Flyers — Nungesser and Coli
In the pages of history are written,
The names of two men, brave and true,
Two heroes who fought for their country as only true heroes can do.
They fought till the world war was over,
For their homes and freedom of men.
And the world’s highest honour was paid them,
For they helped bring that war to an end.
But then on a fine summer morning,
They climbed in their airship so grand.
And started to fly o’er the ocean,
To bring greater fame to their land.
The eyes of the world were upon them,
As they sailed proudly on through the night.
But the thought never came for a moment,
That this was to be their last flight.
A great crowd was waiting to greet them
In old New York town far away.
For they hoped every moment to greet them,
But they waited in vain all the day.
And then o’er the waves flashed the message,
Our brave heroes cannot be found.
And great crowns went forth to the rescue,
For they knew that the airship was down.
There’s a lesson to learn from this story,
Each life is a ship on its way.
And we must be ready to answer,
When the master shall call us some day.
It was a clear harbinger of the future. This song is sung by some on the Cape Shore, evidence the story is still vibrant and alive, all these decades on. So, let that light your path Ric Gillespie and other members of TIGHAR as you take your next step.
Located on Mount Pleasant, Vieux Fort or “Old Fort” was built by France in 1662 to help fortify the colony in Plaisance or Placentia. The colony was one of the steps France had taken to establish itself as a player in pursuit of resource riches in the New World.
The above map was an indication of these initiatives. While giving a general estimation of the fort’s location, the map below may be more a toast to the cartographer’s creativity and artistic license than anything akin to reality.
Early map of Vieux Fort
Across the Cultures
Although the French staked their claim to Plaisance in 1662, there were fishermen arriving on the shores long before. Snippets of a burgeoning cod fishery emerged as early as 1508 and so, the French were already making fishing forays in the 16th century to places like Plaisance (Crompton 2012, 59).
The Basque were also major players in Plaisance at the time. In 1562, a Domingo de Luca had arrived in Plaisance on a ship from the Basque country. It was his misfortune to lose his life. In his Last Will and Testament, he requested he be buried in Plaisance, the indication being there was no doubt a place of worship there in addition to a burial site.
So, clearly Vieux Fort overlooked the busy work of fisherman processing their prior to it being shipped to market. Its location established a reminder of presence and control to the settlers on the beach below.
Life in Plaisance
The people of Plaisance lived a life controlled by the daily challenges of the fishery and its ups and downs. The complex web of commerce with Europe also shaped their lives. They would trade for goods of all sorts, including ceramics and other wares.
Much of what occurred at Vieux Fort has relied on archaeology to piece it together. The life of soldiers were the least documented historically. Thus, it was left to archaeology to construct the life they led. Judging from the finds in the barracks, by the time Vieux Fort was abandoned, the officers had already living in accommodations outside the fort.
It was a hard life, though, for your average soldier. Faced with below par food supplies, not to mention everything else, they were forced to hire themselves out as fishing servants. Based on shipping quantities identified from documentary sources, much of their foods arrived in barrells, the evidence of which hand sine long disappeared.
Materials Used By Soldiers
Most of the artefacts are to be expected, such as components of their weoponry such as gunflints.1Other items revolved around food and beverages with various sherds of ceramic bowls, plates and pots (cooking vessels) (Crompton 2012, 345). Many of the French coarse earthenwares were referred to as Saintonge. One such find from Vieux Fort was four-handed large cruche or jug. Others included Portuguese Redware, North Devon gravel-tempered coarse earthenware, Normandy stoneware, Rhenish Brown stonewares (Crompton 2012, 409-19).
Image of archaeological excavation at Vieux Fort (Source: Christopher Newhook).
Then as now, there was some indication of individuals seeking to identify their status. They did this using items of a more expensive variety. Several of these were unearthed at Vieux Fort (Crompton 2012, 356-8). These would’ve included tin-glazed earthenware (faïence), Chinese export porcelain and a decorative polychrome vessel. The porcelain is particularly indicative of an individual of high rank.
Beverage containers stood as the most prevalent in Vieux Fort. There were drinking jars, jugs, bottles, goblets and mugs. They drank a lot. Alcohol consumption was commonplace and one can only imagine a welcome pastime on cold winter’s nights or after a hard day of work. Alcohol helped to soothe spirits and enhance camaraderie. It likely also helped ensure the conviviality of a situation—grown men sharing a restricted space—that often held the tinder for lost tempers and irritation.
Both wine and brandy were on the list as purchases in Plaisance with wine arriving in large bulk containers and the brandy in smaller ones. The latter was sold in smaller quantities. Stemmed glasses were also recovered at Vieux Fort, evidence that the officers most likely continued to enjoy the pleasantries of the good life.
Relaxing and Recreating
There were also locales where individuals could gather to enjoy a shared tipple. Referred to as cabarets or tippling houses, they welcomed fishing servants and soldiers alike (Crompton 2012, 366).
Along with cabarets, people could also take advantage of a cantine. These locales were places that could provide an assortment of supplies with alcohol being one of them. As a result, the cantines naturally offered officers an opportunity to leverage some control over the soldiers. Who could say no to a promise of liquor?
Much like alcohol, smoking also acted as means by which the men could maintain a sense of peace in circumstances that could no doubt be trying. The archaeologists recovered a host of pipe fragments which would amount to 53 tobacco pipes. And that’s just the ones surviving the test of time.
Tobacco pipe discovered at Vieux Fort (Source: Crompton, Amanda 2012 “The Historical Archaeology of a French Fortification in the Colony of Plaisance” Unpublished Dissertation Memorial University, Department of Anthropology https://research.library.mun.ca/9656/1/Crompton_AmandaJ2.pdf)
Keen to ensure the life of their pipes, some sported signs of maintenance—whittling marks indicating the stems had been replaced. Smoking, much like drinking, was a relatively inexpensive pastime that brought comfort in sometimes frigid conditions. No doubt, it also helped to alleviate any sentiments of agitation or irritation that might arise amongst the soldiers. Generally, smoking also provided a source of cohesion that could only help to strengthen the bonds amongst the men (Crompton 2012, 368-72).
Plight of Vieux Fort
Regardless of the apparent lives being led at Vieux Fort, by 1685, it seemed to be in a rather dilapidated state (Everts 2016, 48). In this same year, the settlers of Plaisance were also expected to restore the cabins of the fort which suggests they were in poor condition (Crompton 2012, 215). Another comment stated how in 1688 and 1689, buildings at the fort required repair.
But the fortunes of Vieux Fort were destined to still deteriorate further. On the 25th February, 1690, attackers from Ferryland, on behalf of the English, stole into the colony unawares. They certainly meant business. After killing two soldiers, wounding Governor Costebelle, and then locking everyone else in the church, they set about their destruction.
They either damaged the four cannons or threw them into the sea. In any case, it was job done. While no known record exists stating when Vieux Fort was abandoned, it’s likely this occurred in 1690. As would be expected, the English would wish to ensure there was very little of nothing left and been thorough in their destruction of the fort.
In fact, later archaeological work by Amanda Crompton, suggested the English intentionally destroyed at least one of the main buildings (Crompton 2012, 232).
Taking It All Into Account
Vieux Fort experienced a relatively short, but colourful life. Built with intention of securing the French hold in Newfoundland, time would show it to be dreadfully inadequate. Following its fateful end, the French were forced to meet the challenges of the English by building several fortifications. These would play a significant role in the years to come.
Vieux Fort is yet another structure that helps to animate the history of the Placentia area. Moreover, it cements in our minds the role that Placentia played in the world. It was a world characterised by powers who sought control over the assets of what eventually became Newfoundland and Labrador.