by Susan Martin, Senior Processing Archivist

I’m returning today to one of my favorite collections here at the MHS, the Perry-Clarke additions. One of the reasons I enjoyed processing this collection so much was because of all the fascinating people it introduced me to. One of them was Cora Huidekoper Clarke (1851-1916).

Cora was a botanist and entomologist, as well as a teacher, writer, and amateur photographer. Considering the rarity of historical material documenting the lives of women scientists, I was intrigued. Unfortunately, very few manuscripts created by Cora are extant. The MHS and a few other repositories, including Harvard, hold small collections of her personal papers.

Cora was born in Meadville, Pennsylvania, but lived most of her life in Boston. Due to poor health as a child, she was educated at home until the age of 13, but soon made up for lost time. She began studying horticulture at 18, and one of her teachers was renowned historian and horticulturalist Francis Parkman at the Bussey Institution in Jamaica Plain.

It didn’t take long for Cora to make a name for herself in scientific circles. She was a member of the Massachusetts Horticultural Society as early as 1871. She served as head of the science department of the first correspondence school in the U.S. and on the council of the Boston Society of Natural History; published papers in scientific journals, sometimes illustrated with her own drawings and photographs; led the botany group of the New England Women’s Club for 35 years; and, in 1884, was elected a fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. And this is only a partial list of her activities and accomplishments.

Cora’s specialties included mosses, algae, caddisflies, and gall flies. She was so noted for her success in rearing gall flies that several species have even been named after her. Now, I studied library science, not any of your hard sciences, so it’s all a little beyond me, but I understand enough to be impressed!

Interestingly, even though Cora had the resources to travel widely, her focus tended to be local. In an undated typescript in the collection, she wrote:

I have always been more interested in studying the natural history of a limited and defined area close at hand, than in wandering to new and distant regions. […] In vain my sister tries to coax me abroad; “I have nothing to do in England.” “You can study the flowers.” [“]But I do not begin to know the flowers of New England.” Little Massachusetts holds overflowing riches in her generous hands.

If there’s a theme running through Cora’s writings (at least the ones I’ve seen), it’s the importance of appreciating natural wonders in your own neighborhood, even literally right under your feet. In the same typescript quoted above, she described the beauty of Boston’s urban flora, including plants growing in the Back Bay Fens right next to the MHS.

I particularly like this passage, from a piece by Cora called “Friendly Flowers, or Scraping Acquaintance With Wild Flowers, by a Sub-botanist.”

Plants have this advantage over people, that by studying their parts, we can look them up in a book and ascertain their names, homes, families and peculiarities—have you not often wished that we could do this with people? Perhaps we see the same persons morning after morning passing our house or riding in the same car with us, and becoming interested in them in a friendly way, wish we could look in a book and learn their names, families, homes, occupations? We should doubtless learn things about them quite different from what we imagined must be the case.

By Alexandra Moleski, NHD Program Coordinator

Kwaï! Welcome to National History Day in MA 2025! Here at the Massachusetts Historical Society, the NHD in MA team is getting excited for contest season. In preparation, we have been brainstorming topic ideas that relate to this year’s NHD theme, Rights and Responsibilities, to share with students as they begin their project research. I wanted to use this blog post to highlight some MHS sources that could inspire an NHD project. Choosing your NHD topic is a very personal experience, and with November being Native American Heritage Month, I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to explore sources in the MHS archives related to my own Wabanaki heritage. 

My search for Wabanaki history in the MHS collections led me down many interesting research avenues, but it begins with the 1830 publication Wo̲banaki kimzowi awighigan, which translates to “Wabanaki learning book.” The book is small and fragile–only about the length of my hand with a blank front cover that is flaking and detaching from the binding.

Despite its delicate condition, I was so excited to find this learning book and I immediately had questions about its origins, particularly its creators. It was published by Crocker and Brewster, a Boston-based publishing company that published many educational works throughout the 19th century. But who was the author, P.P. Wzo̲khilain?

At first, it was difficult to find consistent and reliable information about Wzo̲khilain because he was known by many names throughout his life. P.P. Wzo̲khilain is simply how his name was transliterated into the Latin alphabet for publication. While attending school, he would go by Peter Masta, adopting the last name of his stepfather. But his given name was Pial Pol Osunkhirhine, or Peter Paul Osunkhirine. Osunkhirhine was born in 1799 and grew up in the Abenaki community of Odanak, meaning “to/from the village,” which is in present day Québec, Canada.^[1]

The Abenaki traditionally resided in what is now the northeastern United States and parts of Canada. In the late 17th century, displacement and continuous armed conflict between the British, the French, and their respective tribal allies, pushed some Abenaki to migrate to the St. Lawrence river valley and establish communities, including Odanak. And the Abenaki were not alone in seeking refuge at Odanak–the village was historically diverse, with as many as twenty different Indigenous tribal names connected to it at one time or another.^[2] Residents even included European Christian missionaries and other colonists, some of whom had been taken captive by Abenaki in battle, but when faced with the opportunity of freedom, had chosen to remain at Odanak.

Just as there was a variety of people migrating to Odanak, it was not uncommon for people to venture outside the village as well. At age 22, Osunkhirine traveled 300 miles to Hanover, NH to attend Moor’s Indian Charity School, which was then operating as a branch of the more widely known Dartmouth College. At the charity school, Indigenous students were taught the liberal arts, sciences, European agricultural practices, and to read and write in English, but according to the school’s own mission statement, the purpose of Moor’s was “More Especially for instructing them in the Knowledge & Practice of the Protestant Christian Religion.”^[3] Osunkhirine arrived at Moor’s in 1822 but left after a year due to a dispute regarding tuition payment between school administration and the funder of Osunkhirine’s tuition, the Society in Scotland for Propagating Christian Knowledge in the Highlands and Islands and the Foreign Parts of the World (SSPCK). In 1826, the SSPCK continued to pay tuition and Osunkhirhine was able to continue attending Moor’s.

While in Hanover, Osunkhirhine joined the Congregational Church of Christ and converted to the Protestant sect of Christianity. In 1829, he returned to Odanak and founded his own school, known around the village as the Dartmouth school, in which he taught Abenaki youth the English language and European agricultural practices, believing this would lead them out of the poverty that so heavily impacted Odanak. However, as an Abenaki man and a Protestant in a predominantly Roman Catholic region, Osunkhirine’s founding of the Dartmouth school came with many of its own challenges.

The SSPCK refused to provide long-term funding for the school at Odanak, claiming that its sole purpose was to support Moor’s Indian Charity School back in New Hampshire. Osunkhirhine then sought funding from the government of Lower Canada, but his attempts were blocked by a local Catholic priest who did not want Osunkhirhine preaching Protestantism. The priest would wait until the men of Odanak were away hunting to intimidate Indigenous mothers and prevent them from sending their children to the Dartmouth school. In response, Osunkhirhine rallied support from the chiefs at Odanak and once again appealed to the government of Lower Canada for funds to support his school. This time, both Lower Canada and the local Catholic priest agreed to Osunkhirhine’s school and his teaching religion in it, but only if he did not promote any one sect of Christianity above another.

Osunkhirhine was never deterred by the opposition he faced for his Protestant beliefs. In 1835, the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions named Osunkhirhine missionary to the Abenaki. Three years later, Osunkhirhine established the first Protestant church at Odanak. In addition to his 1830 learning book, Osunkhirhine would go on to publish the Ten Commandments, Gospel of Mark, and hymns in his native Abenaki, as well as theological essays in English.

So now we have uncovered a glimpse into the life of Pial Pol Osunkhirhine, author of Wo̲banaki kimzowi awighigan. But when I began looking into the author’s background, I did not expect my research to lead me to even bigger questions and ultimately, a discovery about our understanding–or misunderstanding–of Osunkhirhine’s native tongue…

Wli nanawalmezi!

^[1] Henry L. Masta, “When the Abenaki Came to Dartmouth,” Dartmouth Alumni Magazine 21, no. 5 (1929): 303, http://archive.dartmouthalumnimagazine.com/issue/19290301#!&pid=302.

^[2] Gordon M. Day, The Identity of the Saint Francis Indians (University of Ottawa Press, 1981), 10.

^[3] Colin G. Calloway, The Indian History of an American Institution: Native Americans and Dartmouth (University Press of New England, 2010), 7, http://digitalcommons.dartmouth.edu/dartmouth_press/5/.

by Susan Martin, Senior Processing Archivist

In honor of Election Day tomorrow, I searched the MHS stacks for material related to elections. Unsurprisingly we have a lot! One collection I discovered tells the fascinating story of Charles N. Richards of Quincy, Massachusetts, who, in November 1864, traveled all the way home from Washington, D.C. to vote for Abraham Lincoln.

Richards had served in the 13th Massachusetts Infantry during the Civil War, but was mustered out after an injury sustained at Antietam. (He was bayoneted in the jaw.) In 1864, he was 23 years old and working in D.C. at the Senate Stationery Room, the department responsible for supplies. He was a fervent Republican and looked forward to casting his first-ever ballot for Lincoln.

Apparently there was some disagreement over his eligibility to vote in his hometown of Quincy because his mother had been living in Dorchester when he came of age. But when the Quincy town clerk sent him the all-clear, Richards started packing. Unfortunately, though many states offered absentee voting, it was only available to active-duty soldiers. So Richards was going to have to cast an in-person ballot in Massachusetts…about 450 miles away.

He set off on 4 November, recording every step of the grueling journey in his diary.

First he tried to catch the 6:39pm train to New York, but couldn’t even get near it because of the crowds. Everyone seemed to be heading north for the election. Richards eventually boarded the 9:30 train, but at Baltimore, he was told his car would be re-routed back to Washington. He had to get out and walk to the President Street Depot, but just missed the train there.

Two or three hours later, he caught a 2:30am cattle car to Philadelphia. For part of the ride, he sat on a pine board with nothing to lean his back against, and the rest he spent on the crowded floor of a passenger car. The train reached Philadelphia in the wee hours of the morning in the middle of a snow and hail storm. Richards hopped on a streetcar to Kensington Depot (changing three times) and arrived in time to catch the 4:00am train to New York.

He ferried into New York at 11:30pm, quickly devoured a meal—his first since leaving Washington—and crashed at a hotel for the night. He was so exhausted that he slept through a fire in one of the other rooms!

The next day was Sunday. Richards had a steamboat ticket, but there were no boats leaving until Monday evening. Ever resourceful, he made friends with a hospital steward, who finagled him a spot in his car on the 5pm train to Boston. The steward was escorting a number of wounded soldiers home to vote. When asked who they were voting for, they replied that “they voted the same way they fought.”

After changing trains in Boston, Richards finally reached Quincy at 8:30am on 7 November. His trip had taken a total of 59 hours. Every step of the way, passengers and passersby had discussed, argued, cheered, and nearly brawled about the candidates.

Unfortunately, it turned out the question of Richards’s eligibility was unresolved. Contrary to what he’d heard, the town selectmen were still divided on the issue, and the canvassing committee advised him to play it safe and not vote. Richards took their advice, but was disappointed.

It was really a severe blow to me. It was with great reluctance that I gave up the chance to cast my first vote for such a cause as the Union & such a man as Abraham Lincoln. […] I knew no other home [but Quincy], nor never had, nor never wished to, and now to be deprived of the privileges of a citizen, and cut off from the place I loved & labored for was mortifying in the extreme to me.

In fact, Lincoln won the town of Quincy, surprising his supporters and detractors alike. On his return to Washington, D.C., Richards learned the “glorious” news that Lincoln had carried the day and that “thanks to a kind Providence, the Election passed off in quietude & in order.” He fell asleep “with a light heart.”

by Elaine Heavey, Director of the Library

The MHS houses hundreds of photograph collections, mostly family photographs containing posed portraits and candid photos like this one.  In some cases, a family member meticulously labeled every photo, letting us know whose images have been captured for future generations to see.  Other collections are not so well documented, leaving us to guess who, where, and when.   

Take this photo of two young children, maybe seven or eight years old.  The hooded coats say it is a cool day—perhaps a mid-fall day like today.  The image is a bit timeless. When was it taken—1890, 1920, 1950?  Perhaps a fashion expert could guesstimate by examining the style of the coats, but I like to let my imagination run wild when looking at this photo.  Who are these kids? Are they siblings, cousins, friends? Where were they and what were they doing on the day the photo was taken?  And then I create a future for them—based on my musings on the first few questions.   

This has long been one of my favorite photographs held in the MHS collection as it could be a captured moment of any two kids on any day—and I can tell myself a new story each time I look at it.     

Yet as I thought about writing this post, I had to admit that in this case, we know exactly who the children are and when the photo was taken. So, I broke the spell and did some research.  Thanks to a notebook kept by photographer Marian Hooper “Clover” Adams, we know she snapped this photograph of Helen and Adelbert “Del” Hay in Cleveland, Ohio on October 24, 1883.   

Del and Helen were the two eldest of John and Clara Hay’s children.  Clover and her husband Henry Adams were close friends of the Hay’s. On a visit to the Hay’s home Clover snapped this and other photographs of the Hay family.  So, I now know who the kids were, that they were siblings, and that they were playing near their home in Cleveland on the day the photo was taken.  But what was their future? That took a little more research. 

Del’s story was tragically short.  Following in his father’s footsteps he embarked on a diplomatic career upon graduating from Yale.  He served as U.S. Consul in Pretoria during the Boer War, and shortly after his return to the United States was appointed assistant private secretary to President McKinley.  He accepted the post, but he died on June 24, 1901, after falling from a hotel window in Hartford, CT, a week before his post was officially slated to begin. He was 24 years old.    

Helen lived a long and active life.  She published several volumes of original poetry; operated Greentree Stables, raising several hall-of-fame horses and winning twice at the Kentucky Derby, twice at the Belmont Stakes, and several other major races along the way; and engaged in several philanthropic endeavors, including the creation of the Helen Hay Whitney Foundation which supports post-doctoral research in bio-medical science.  Helen Hay Whitney died at the age of 69 in 1944.   

Even knowing all this now, I will still let my imagination create stories for the two kids in the photo each time I have a chance to view it.  But I am grateful to Clover and her notebook for giving me the chance to uncover the true story as well.    

by Samantha Couture, MHS Nora Saltonstall Conservator & Preservation Librarian

Welcome to Part 3 of our series on conservation at the MHS. Here, we will discuss a few of the conservation treatments that Samantha performs in our lab. The purpose of any conservation work is to reverse or repair damage to extend the useability and lifespan of the item or provide access for research or exhibition. The benefits of doing a treatment or repair are weighed against any potential risks to the item, the time involved, and the research value of the piece.

There are many variables that affect treatment and its effectiveness, such as the type of paper, kinds of inks and other media, the nature and extent of the damage, and any ‘inherent vice’ present in the paper or ink. Effective treatments can reduce dirt and pollutants that degrade paper and media, remove acids that cause embrittlement, remove tape and adhesives that stain and damage paper, flatten a document so that it can be framed or stored, and repair tears and fill lost areas to strengthen and stabilize the paper. There are some things treatments can’t do, like reverse brittleness of paper or leather, darken faded inks, or remove some types of discoloration.

One collection at MHS that needed a significant amount of attention is the Perry-Clarke family papers. When our processing archivists began to arrange and describe the family correspondence, they discovered significant amounts of soot and fire damage to the documents. Soot is acidic and sticky, and clings well to paper. Over time, it can cause the underlying paper to become stained and brittle. It’s also very easy to get soot from one document to another while handling. Additionally, some of the items were torn or in pieces, and unable to be handled by researchers.

Luckily, the paper of most of the fire damaged items was of good quality and was strong enough to mend. This letter, written by James J. Clarke on January 28, 1840, to Alfred, was badly damaged and in pieces. To allow the item to be handled, the sections, weakened areas, and tears were mended using Japanese paper pre-coated with adhesive. The pre-coated tissue was cut into the shapes of the tears and losses. Then the adhesive is reactivated with alcohol and attached to the area to be mended.

The MHS has several manuscripts by Mayflower passenger William Bradford. We looked at one of these in Part 2 when we examined Bradford’s “Dialogue.” The binding was beautifully made at the MHS in the nineteenth century, but it was difficult to see all the text, since the pages didn’t open fully. In 2023, one leaf of the pamphlet needed to go out on exhibit. We decided to remove the entire manuscript from the binding and after exhibition, mend and sew it into a paper cover, which is most likely what Bradford would have done originally.

Another of our Bradford manuscripts, ‘Some observations of God’s merciful dealing with us in this wilderness, and His gracious protection over us these many years’ [fragment], had also been bound in the 19^th century. The pages were attached along the spine to blank leaves making some of the text impossible to see. The manuscript was stained and too fragile to be used.

Because of the staining and acidity of the paper, Samantha decided to wash the manuscript. Washing refers to many types of water and solvent solutions used in paper conservation. Washing removes soluble acids, dirt, and can lighten stains. Removing acids makes the paper more flexible and less likely to break or tear. An added treatment done during the washing process neutralizes the iron in iron gall ink to prevent further corrosion. After washing, the pages were reinforced and lost areas filled with Japanese paper. After treatment the pages were digitized and then they were resewn into a paper cover.

The MHS has a significant map collection. Like many, this hand drawn map of Naushon and the Elizabeth Islands made in 1836 was attached to a cloth backing, nailed to wooden dowels, and then rolled for many years. The new acquisition arrived with cracks, tears, water stains and was so tightly rolled it was impossible to keep flat.

First, the cloth and adhesive were removed from the back of the map. Then the pieces of the map were washed. To align the pieces of the map, it was first placed wet between mylar and eased into place. The mylar allows the map to then be turned upside down and lined with Japanese paper. The map was then dried between wool felt and weight. Now, the map is stored with the rest of the collection and is ready to be used by researchers.

Below is the finished treatment after drying and flattening.

There are many activities besides direct treatments that we do at the MHS that contribute to the preservation of our collections. In our next post, we will discuss the building environment, storage and handling practices, budgeting and time management, documentation, and disaster preparedness.

by Heather Rockwood, Communications Manager

I sometimes say, “my art history degree did not teach me the history of art, it taught me how to look.” And by “look,” I mean that I have a background knowledge in symbolism, period, style, medium, subject, color, and composition. When I visit museums with friends, I try not to overburden them with interpretation, but perhaps I sometimes do. This skill of looking helps me in my work at the Massachusetts Historical Society. On our social media pages and in our e-newsletters, I am sharing stories from one of the most interesting and important Early Republic collections and archives in the United States. For example, I use my looking skill to find meaning behind the iconography used in art that is a language no longer taught or known to us, except within university classrooms. I thought that for October’s blog, I’d share my looking skills on how to see mourning iconography in the MHS’s collection and archive. Keep reading (or looking!) if you dare!

I would like to start with an interesting embroidery created by Lydia Young Little, circa 1803–1804. At that time, part of a girl’s education would have been embroidery, or another skilled art done while seated, such as quilling or shell-work. An embroidery created by a fourteen- or fifteen- year-old girl signaled that she was properly educated by prosperous parents. Lydia used silk thread and watercolor on silk to create this scene of mourning, which its symbols depict. The urn symbolizes both the corporeal remains of the body and the container of the body’s ashes.  The urn is on top of a carved rock slab, which is most likely the grave’s headstone. The wreath relates to the wreath that was often hung on the door of a house in mourning. Even today, a wreath is a common gift to a family who has lost a beloved member. The willow tree, sometimes called a “weeping willow” because the leaves appear to be tears falling from the branches, is also a symbol of mourning. Besides these more obvious symbols are subtle ones, such as the fully closed house in the background. A home’s shuttered appearance was a traditional way to convey a house in mourning. The three children pictured are mourning, but only one, the girl on the left, is actively crying, as shown by her stance on her knees and her handkerchief in her hand. The other two are standing with one hand pointed towards the sky, symbolizing that a family member has passed on to heaven. The last two symbols refer to who has died—the children’s father. The girl on the right holds an anchor symbolizing his seafaring life, and the single ship in the harbor refers to the deceased’s position as a captain. In fact, this embroidery was made to mourn Captain James Little, Lydia’s father.

The tale of the Battle of Bunker Hill and the loss of the handsome and charming Joseph Warren is a story I love to tell. This broadside contains an elegiac poem about the battle and an acrostic poem for Warren. Three rows of twenty caskets each illustrate the top of the page—an indication that the first poem is about the death of many individuals. At the bottom right of the page is Warren’s acrostic poem, illustrated by a casket with his initials and a skull and crossbones, the latter a popular symbol of death. Sometimes the skulls have angelic wings, indicating the deceased person has gone to heaven, as also shown in Lydia Little’s embroidery with the children pointing skyward.

Now that you are familiar with mourning iconography, what are some of the symbols you see in the following images, and are there other symbols you see that we didn’t discuss? Have you learned how to look?

by Susan Martin, Senior Processing Archivist

Since July, I’ve been introducing you to individual members of the remarkable Clarke family of Boston, whose papers I recently processed. Next up is Alice de Vermandois (Sohier) Clarke. Alice was the daughter of lawyer William Sohier and Susan Cabot (Lowell) Sohier. In 1878, she married Eliot Channing Clarke, the only son of Rev. James Freeman Clarke, which is how her papers came to be here at the MHS.

For this post, I’d like to focus on eleven folders of manuscripts in the Perry-Clarke additions documenting Alice’s work with the Boston Female Asylum.

Some sources refer to the Boston Female Asylum as an orphanage, but that isn’t strictly true; the asylum also accommodated girls with living parents who couldn’t support them. Bacon’s Dictionary of Boston (1886) has a good summary of the organization.

No. 1008 Washington Street. Established 1800; incorporated 1803. Receives destitute girls between three and ten, preference being given to orphans, though others are sometimes admitted; teaches them common-school branches, sewing, and domestic service; places them in families by indenture until 18, a few being always retained during their minority to serve in the asylum. Full surrender of a child is required on admission…

I was excited to see this material. Dating from 1894 to 1900, the papers consist primarily of correspondence between members of the asylum’s board of managers, including Alice; women in whose homes girls had been placed; superintendent Eliza J. Ross, who worked as a liaison for placements; and, most importantly, two of the girls themselves.

The managers really seemed to try to find the right placement for each girl. Alice’s notes mention some of them by name: for example, Leila Johnson was “small” and “easily led,” but a “good girl & worker.” Margaret Woodleigh was “very reliable,” but “cold distant no friends.” And Lizzie Alcott was “backward” and “cross at times” and needed a home with “(no men).”

I only have the space to discuss two individual stories very briefly, but I encourage you to come and look at the material yourself.

Edith Turner

Edith was living with the Hanscom family in Lawrence, Mass., but wrote to Alice begging for a new place: “Everything is quiet just now but only for a day or so an[d] then it will be war again so please get me away as soon as possible.” Sure enough, the following morning Edith and Mrs. Hanscom had an argument, and Hanscom slapped her. The desperate girl wrote to Alice again, saying “I cannot an[d] will not stand what I have to any more” and threatening to run away.

The collection also includes a letter from Winifred Hanscom with her side of the story. She didn’t deny what happened, but described it as “discipline.” She called Edith “high spirited and independant and […] saucey [sic].”

Edith was eventually placed with Abby F. Solberg of Melrose, Mass., an “intelligent rather artistic” woman with a physical disability and two young children. Superintendent Eliza Ross wrote, “Mrs. Hanscom [was] not very well pleased to part with [Edith]. I fancy she did a good deal of work.”

Grace Smith

Grace wasn’t happy, either. The 15-year-old was living with the Dockrill family in Manchester, N.H., where she was responsible for most of the housework, including sweeping, cleaning carpets, washing dishes, emptying slops, making beds, cleaning bathrooms, washing floors, etc. But Mrs. Dockrill said Grace was careless and lazy, and both of them wrote Alice asking for a change.

Carrie Dockrill was kinder to Grace than Hanscom had been to Edith. She said Grace had “good qualities” and thought she might enjoy placement at a farm because she loved the outdoors. Superintendent Ross called Grace “rather a peculiar and unbalanced girl,” but argued that of course “it is hard to change one’s nature wholly.”

Grace, for her part, promised “to turn over a new leaf and make something and somebody of myself.” After Mrs. Dockrill’s death a few months later, the girl was placed with a Mrs. Gould, also in Manchester. An undated note in the collection, in Alice’s handwriting, reads: “Grace Smith successful.”

I hope you’ll join me for my next post about the Perry-Clarke additions.