The Hatter of Broadway

As a break from an ongoing project, I’m going to write about a man with a hat shop. To introduce him, I have to go back to a previous post about my ancestor John Andrews, in which he described a trip he and his sister Harriet took from their home in southern Indiana to New York and Connecticut to see relatives and the New York World’s Fair of 1853 [you can access that post here].

He says they came “to New York, and Brooklyn, where we met for the first time some of our cousins, Mrs. Mary Taylor and her sister Miss Harriet Osborn. They were sisters of A.S. Osborn who had come west some years before” –and then they had gone with Harriet Osborne to Connecticut where all their older relatives still lived. The Osborne sisters were the daughters of Julia Andrews, one of John’s father’s younger sisters.

Here’s where he introduces our hat man:
“Returning to New York and Brooklyn we were helped in sight-seeing by some of our business relatives, Mr. Taylor, Mary Osborne’s husband who had a hat store on Broadway, another cousin Andrews who dealt in clothing etc. also on Broadway, and Samuel Andrews who, although a graduate of Yale College, and the only one of my kindred that I heard of who did, drove a dray to support his family, and perhaps he was more successful than his brothers.” [In my previous post I added a note about the humble occupation of driving a dray, but I now wonder if John meant to stress that Samuel was the only one of his family who graduated from college?]

To get back to hat making and such subjects—I decided I needed to know the name of this hatter. I had looked for him in the past with no success, but people are doing more altruistic work than ever these days, despite what we read in the newspapers, and all around the world there are folks photographing, scanning, uploading, and online indexing historical records for the fun of it—not for any pecuniary advantage—which is why I found him this time I looked.

I got on Ancestry.com and asked the search engine to look for a man surnamed Taylor with a wife named Mary, living in the vicinity of New York City in 1850, who did something with hats for a living. Bingo! The New York State census of 1855 popped up with the family of Anson Taylor, a man who made and sold hats for a living, born in Connecticut with a wife named Mary who was also born in Connecticut, with a few little children and a sister named Harriet Osborn who was also born in Connecticut. They lived in Brooklyn. This was obviously our man.

Top hat and Panama hat styles

Did you know that the bowler hat was invented in 1849 by James Lock & Co. of London? Perhaps Anson Taylor was creating the new design for sale in his shop. Certainly he was making top hats of all kinds. Panama hats were probably originally created in Ecuador and became popular worldwide by being sold to the thousands of 1849 gold seekers passing through the Isthmus of Panama. Anson Taylor would have had Panama hats in his shop as well.

Butch Cassidy and his wild bunch all wearing bowler hats

Men’s smoking hats of that day were modeled on the Turkish fez, and were intended to keep the smoker’s head warm and incidentally to absorb most of the smell of the smoke so that the hair didn’t smell. Smoking hats were made of luxury fabric such as velvet and were richly embroidered and adorned with tassels.

Various examples of 19th-century smoking hats, courtesy of Google

Top hat of the style worn in the early 1850s;
this daguerreotype was made on Broadway and
maybe this young man bought his hat from Anson Taylor

An interesting thing about making hats of felt—the Mad Hatter’s disease was a dreadful reality. Especially in the mid-19th century, immigrants and other workers made hats in close quarters with little ventilation and inadequate drainage, so that they were ripe for mercury poisoning during the felt-making process that released mercury vapor into the air. One of the major symptoms of the disease was tremors in the hands, eyelids, lips, and tongue, which were all dismissed as signs that the worker was addicted to intoxicating liquor.

Felt hat making processes

Could Mr. Anson Taylor have operated one of these unhygienic workshops in the back of his store or somewhere nearby? At the time it would have been seen as normal working conditions and practices to have such a setup.

It is very probable that Anson Taylor was not physically making the hats himself. He left his Broadway shop at night and went home to Brooklyn, where Mary and the children, his sister-in-law Harriet, and usually an Irish boarder or servant or both were living. (There was one Ellen McGonnagal from Dublin there in the household as a servant when the 1855 census was taken, and she was back again when the 1870 census was taken. Why she wasn’t there for the 1860 census is a little mystery.) At any rate, this was a well-to-do household, with all of the houses on the street worth from $4500 to $5000, located in the old Brooklyn Heights neighborhood running along the East River south of where the Brooklyn Bridge would be built beginning in 1869.

In 1853 when John and Harriet Andrews visited the Osbornes, over in New York Boss William M. Tweed was just coming into full power and starting his system of graft in the Tammany Hall district. As tourists, the Andrews siblings wouldn’t have come into contact with any of the corruption of the city government, of course.

They would have appreciated the sights of the Trinity Church, the tallest structure in Manhattan at that time; the Church of the Holy Trinity with the first stained-glass windows to depict figures; perhaps 1 Hanover Square, which was the newly-opened site of the Hanover Bank (later to be the site of the New York Cotton Exchange and then the India House); and the big old round fort building at the Battery that was once known as Fort Clinton, but then was known as Castle Garden, a place of entertainment. The renowned soprano Jenny Lind had sung there a year or two before, and the notorious Lola Montez presented the infamous “tarantula dance” there the next year. They might also have visited Green-wood Cemetery in Brooklyn, as it was a popular tourist place. Before Boss Tweed was buried there in the 1870s, no one who had been convicted of a crime, or even had been in jail, was allowed to be buried there. The cemetery’s popularity in the 1850s led directly to the competition to design and develop New York’s Central Park. Perhaps on a Sunday they attended Plymouth Congregational Church in Brooklyn and heard the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, whom many considered to be the most famous speaker in America, preach a sermon against slavery. Scattered about the still-mostly agrarian area were homes, schools, and other buildings made famous by the American Revolution or by surviving from the earliest colonial days.

In addition, as John wrote, “While in New York a world’s fair was in progress. . . . in one building there was a great many things on exhibition that were new to me, interesting and useful. Typewriter a novelty and a wonder to most every one, sewing machines, and other household appliances, agricultural machinery in variety, such as plows, cultivators, mowing machines, reapers, etc.” The Fair buildings were built in what is now Bryant Park.

Lower Manhattan Island in the 1850s. Note the spire of Trinity Church. Brooklyn Heights is on the lower right.
On the lower left of the island is the round Castle Garden building.

It’s probably useful to think about what was not in New York yet in 1853. No skyscrapers. No Brooklyn Bridge, which was the first bridge over either one of New York’s rivers, as it was not yet planned. Central Park’s creation was just then being funded by the legislature, although winter ice skating was popular already on the lake there. Macy’s first store in New York City was still five years away from being started. The Metropolitan Museum of Art wouldn’t be started on Fifth Avenue until 1870. St. Patrick’s Cathedral was not built until 1910.

But our hat maker Anson Taylor and his family would have seen some of these changes as they continued to live there. One line in David McCullough’s famous book about the building of the Brooklyn Bridge says that a Brooklyn hatter was among those who walked across the temporary wooden footbridge during the construction of the mammoth bridge. The hatter was one of those who unfortunately froze with fright midway across and had to be helped back (page 407). I hope that wasn’t Anson! The stereoscopic view below, taken in the late 1870s during construction, shows how scary that footbridge was.

The construction footbridge was used by quite a few intrepid people until a man had a seizure in the middle and nearly fell. After that, the construction foreman stopped issuing anybody a pass to go up. Besides, people were getting in the way of the building of the bridge.

Funny thing is, Anson disappears from the records of New York between 1860 and 1870. His wife and some of the children still live in the same house in Brooklyn in 1870, and then they too all disappear.

An Anson Taylor surfaces in Illinois in 1870, married to a much-younger Irish immigrant named Marianne Barrett originally from Dublin. They have two children, a 15-year-old boy named John (who might have belonged to Marianne from a previous relationship), and a little girl named Monica. I wondered if our Anson had been caught in an affair and divorced from Mary Osborne Taylor. It happened to many folks—but there is no telling here for certain.

I did discover that a lot of people online seem to be looking for an Anson Taylor born within the same 10-year period as our Anson, and all seeming to disappear from families where curiously, only one or two children were ever born, and always in the month of March. Maybe our Anson was a serial bigamist who took annual trips?! Little Monica was born in March . . .

Maybe he came down with Mad Hatter’s disease and could take it no longer and left.

Serious researchers, you’ll have to pardon my taking liberties with the gravity of the facts you seek. I actually seek facts too and try to identify my flights of fancy as such. Note to everyone: the preceding three paragraphs contain speculation about facts. Do not treat my “wonder” as truth! My apologies to all you who are literate enough to understand the difference, but these days explanation is safer than subtlety.

These days “facts” have become whatever suits the imagination. We are living in an age where fantasy is sliding into propaganda. By the way, I have a bridge to sell you, though I may be “talking through my hat.”

The Memoirs of John Andrews, Part 2a - That Daguerreotype

Here is the previous entry in the series of The Memoirs of John Andrews: Part 2: Relatives and Travels


The 1853 Daguerrotype of John Andrews

I found among my things one of the daguerreotypes of John Andrews. This is not the one my aunt and I have been wanting, which we know was given by a cousin to a little museum in southern Indiana, which has since gone out of business and its holdings are who-knows-where now. This is a different one, and I think it might be the one he had done when in New York in 1853. I also found the one of his sister, Harriet!

Very excited to get these published here.

Here is the original of John, which has sadly begun to deteriorate. The color tinting is what makes me wonder whether this is really the 1853 version or a later version.

I took a picture with my DSLR camera and created a black and white image that I then worked on, pixil by pixil. I am not anything close to a professional so the enhanced version is not very good, really, but at least I think it makes him look better than with those ugly blotches on his face!

As always, you can click the pictures to see them in their original size.










Here are my two black and white versions.

Now here is Harriet Andrews. Since in this photograph she seems to be wearing a wedding ring (remember that daguerreotypes were actually mirror images of the person photographed), this makes me wonder more whether these two pictures were made later than 1853. I guess we will never know for sure!

Here is the next part of the Memoirs: Part 3, Farm Inventions, Politics, and Business

The Memoirs of John Andrews, Part 1

I inherited a typescript of the following memoirs written by my great-great grandfather at the request of one of his sons about 1920. John Andrews was born 1 April 1831 near what came to be known as Farmersville, Posey County, Indiana. He lived until 1922, dying at the age of 91 with a clear mind. His memory is remarkable and the details of his early life quite interesting to anyone who is interested in folk history. In transcribing the typescript, I changed punctuation and added words marked with square brackets. I also decided to put notes in square brackets where explanation might be helpful. Here is his story.
*****

School Days, 1835 to 1850

Procrastination is one of my sins. Had I commenced this memoir when my hand was steady, my eyes clear, and brain active, it is possible I could have made it interesting to those who desire to read it, and surely it would have been more pleasant to write it.

Folk portrait of sister and brother in 1840

I was born on the first day of April 1831. My sister Harriet was born some 19 months later. An older sister had passed away before or soon after my birth. My sister [Harriet] was afflicted with some trouble pertaining to female childhood, I know not what, and Father had a little wagon made, and a maid in Mother’s employ was accustomed to pull her about in it, and my first distinct memory was accompanying [them], trudging along beside. I was probably between three and four years old.

[John’s sister Ann was 20 months old when John was born and nearly 3 when she died 17 July 1832. Harriet was 18 months younger than John. Brother Seth was born when John was a month shy of 6 years old. The family lived in Posey County, at the southern tip of Indiana.]

I have no memory when I learned to read or when I first went to school, but it was surely long before a child would be enrolled as a scholar now. But I have a distinct memory of my first school and of some incidents that occurred there, and of my first teacher. I was perhaps between four or five years; the school house was heated by a large open stove. A lot of the little fellows like myself sitting around it dangling our feet from backless benches, when one day the teacher called me out and with a flat ruler in his hand took one of my hands and gave me three spats in my palm, the only time I was ever chastised in school. Why he did it, I never knew, some boyish squabble perhaps. I was too spunky to cry but turned with a smile to my grinning companions.

After two years this teacher, whose name was Felsch, left, [and] another took his place. This was many years before free schools came; the county was divided into districts with trustees to employ teachers and see to other necessary details. Often it would be only for three months. That was a term and sometimes that was the limit for school that year. If the teacher gave satisfaction he would be retained longer. Parents or guardians paid a stipulated price for each scholar enrolled. Thus my schooling went on until I was nine years old, except what Father and Mother taught me in the meantime. About this time my sister had fully regained her health, and having an active mind, our study in some branches was the same in after years. Father had taught me English grammar and I never studied it in school. In fact some of my early teachers could teach only reading, writing, and spelling.

In my sixth year Father became guardian to a cousin, Clark Butler, 4 years my senior, and after a few years we pursued the same studies together.

When I was nine years old we had a teacher for two or three terms who apparently found it necessary to instill knowledge into our youthful brains by the application of long hickory switches to wake up our dullard minds, and there were some who often felt its tingling over their shoulders. Whether it was that I was smarter than some of those who quite often had a taste of the gad, it never fell on me, but an occasional twist of the ears was the extent of my punishment.

One of the duties of the teachers in those days was to convert goose quills into pens and keep them in repair until worn out and exchanged. It is likely that the Declaration of Independence was written with the quill and perhaps also the Constitution was thus transcribed, and would it not be in harmony and justly so if the emancipation of four million slaves accomplished by the pen of Abe Lincoln, had been written by this agency? But this is perhaps a vain hope as metallic pens had then taken the place in the march of progress of the feathery quill. It is said that the cackling of geese once saved Rome. So the goose has played its part in human progress. This is wandering, yet sometimes it is pleasant to step aside from the main line and cull a flower from the fragrant bloom by the roadside.

An incident during this term of school that likely, subconsciously at least, had quite an influence on my life—in the study of arithmetic I had reached vulgar fractions and a problem soon appeared that at first appeared beyond my ability to solve. After some effort to do so I sought the aid of the teacher. Whether he would not or could not explain it I do not know. He had a key—a duplicate of the arithmetic with the examples explained—and probably this one was not included. Anyway after several attempts failed to get help, I determined myself to solve it. I worked at it for one week, and behold it was accomplished. Fractions had no more terrors for me.

This teacher was sued by the father of one of the boys he had severely thrashed and was fined one cent. Soon after that a school meeting was called and it proved a stormy one, and that night the school house burned down, whether by accident or design was not known.

After the burning of the school house, school was kept for a while in a vacant house on our farm and later in a church nearby. But conditions did not suit Father and soon after the fiasco, he took my cousin Clark and me to a school in Mount Vernon. It was several years before we attended the home school again. It was now 1841, I was ten years old. We found the school in Mount Vernon on our advent there kept in an old one room building packed full of scholars, but room was made for us. The first day was an epoch in my life—everyone but Clark perfect strangers, as was the teacher. Our studies were designated and no doubt we “Country Jakes” had the benefit of many sinister smiles and whispered jibes. The day passed. Just as the sun was preparing to don his night robes I was called up and given an example to demonstrate on the black board. It was my first appearance before that august body and my futile attempt to erase an example with my hand raised a snicker. That put the “ginger” in me. I found the sponge, cleared the board and my example soon took the place of the one obliterated. Soon school was dismissed. Darkness was stealing over the earth, and we had 3½ miles to foot it home.

Clark and I soon got in the stride and nervousness soon wore off in school, and on the playground we were accepted as good fellows.

Our teacher here was a well-educated man and as Father wished us to take Latin as one of our studies, soon we were conjugating amo and declining penna through its alternating changes from nominative to ablative. In addition we had geometry hitched on to our arithmetic. As we were put in classes we were behind in some of them and it was hard to catch up.

When we entered this school the town was building a brick two story house which they called “The Seminary,” and as soon as it was finished we moved from our crowded room to a commodious one on the second floor of this building. The Seminary was situated on rising ground on the northern end of the town which shortened our daily walk one-half mile each way. The school room was a fine one, fitted up with seats and desks for two, and heated in winter by a fireplace in one end and a stove in the middle. There was a small recitation room that was used also for storing our wraps, etc. The morning session commenced with reading by turns a chapter in the Bible and prayer by the teacher.

Original Mount Vernon Seminary, 204 F Street, NW

It was the winter term of 1841 that we entered there. It was the boys’ job to sweep, make fires, etc. in turn. In winter Clark and I had to be on the road by seven o’clock, and when our turn came to sweep and fire up, we had to start earlier, and after reaching the building one of us had to go one-half mile to get the key. In the short days of winter the stars would be showing, but if it were not raining a short hour would bring us home to a glorious feast of rich corn bread that Mother knew well how to make, baked in a skillet before the open fire, covered with a lid and red hot coals raked out from a generous fire on top, and underneath. When we reached home wet to the skin, as sometimes we did, that corn bread and a rich bowl of milk made a feast for the gods. This was before the advent of the cook stove. There was a large oven built at the side of the large fire place that Mother used for white bread, pastry, etc.

The teacher here was named Knap. A part of the routine of school work was declamation and composition on alternate Friday afternoons. The boys had to go up on the elevated stand, face the audience and deliver an oration. This at first was a fearful experience, but I soon got so that I enjoyed the situation. The girls as well as boys had to hand in compositions for correction.

Winter passed, spring and summer came and went once, twice, and a new teacher named Collins was installed with his wife as assistant. I turned 14 in 1845. This year sister Harriet was taken out of the home school and went with us to Mount Vernon during summer. We all rode back and forth in a buggy, and after that Harriet and a cousin named Sophronia Phillips (an aunt of Flora) who had lived with us for some time were boarded near the school.

Having now reached the age to help on the farm my studies through the summer were much broken up.

Schoolhouse in Farmersville, sketch by Anne Doane

In the meantime a new schoolhouse was built on the site of the burned one in Farmersville, and fitted with seats and desks, it was a great improvement over the old arrangement. Having secured the services of Mr. Welche for the new school, we never returned to Mount Vernon.

In 1846 the war with Mexico began and a number of my acquaintances volunteered and went, but all of them that I knew except one, who died there, returned. The organizing of a company and a regiment in Mt. Vernon made quite a stir. I do not know that this regiment ever was in battle, but the second in command, Alvin P. Hovey, was afterwards made Brigadier General under Grant at Vicksburg, and afterwards he was Governor of Indiana. He was a native of Posey County. [More information about Posey County military matters and Alvin P. Hovey can be found at this website.]

I was 16 now—I worked on the farm summers and went to school in winter.

This fall we had a new teacher by the name of P.K. Dibbler, and in one respect he was the best I ever had—and he had a crowded school. Quite a number of pupils from a distance took advantage of the opportunity as it was better than they could get at home, although they had to pay extra. He was also a preacher. His salary of 400 dollars was considerably increased by his preaching and outside students. He was an athlete and enjoyed the playground as much as the boys, and this added to his favor with most of the boys. But there was always carping then, and before his time expired there was trouble. He was accused of partiality by some and a hot fight—verbal—took place. As a result, at the end of his second term he quit teaching and went into other business.

Yet there was an episode in this last term perhaps worth recording. The schoolhouse was on a large corner lot and as the national holiday was near at hand, it was decided to have a celebration. The house had two front doors, one for the boys and one for the girls, and in front we built a stage, and with a bolt of domestic [a length of cotton cloth] we made a large awning, and in front we arranged tables and prepared eatables. After some songs by Clark, who was a good singer, I was called on to read the immortal Declaration, and then Mr. Dibbler gave a patriotic address. We enjoyed the feast. The platform in front was for staging a play at night. The house doors behind made a convenient dressing and retiring room. I do not remember what the play was, but we had to have a darky [a common term then that we do not endorse now] and we had a good substitute in one of the boys, and a few girls were included. A number of my old schoolmates from the Mt. Vernon school came out, and as the patriotic fever increased some were induced to declaim their former school orations.

On the whole it was a success and well done. This ended Mr. Dibbler’s term, but he was followed by another well-educated man, by name Murry, and I passed the next winter in school attending two terms of three months each.

About this time, 1848, the discovery of gold in California became for a time the absorbing topic, and in the following year the gold fever raged all over the land, as bad as the late epidemic of flu—a very poor comparison. [He was writing this just after the 1918 influenza pandemic.] A company was organized at Farmersville and some others in the county. Ox and mule teams were secured, large wagons prepared and in due time joined the long trail across the plains. Six months passed ere they reached the gold mines. Many of the animals died, and on the whole not a few of the men and women. A sad ending to many.

A few months later quite a large company went via Panama and were becalmed at Acapulco for several months, but they reached the end after five months. Many were financed, the option a divide of one half of the proceeds. Generally they secured enough to pay expenses and some over, but very few made any very rich strikes. Some returned after two or three years, others made California their home. In another place some of the gold digging will be specialized.

In 1850 a Mr. Howard, a highly educated man, found his way to Farmersville. He had a wife and 10 year old boy. He bought a large lot on which was a very nice cottage and a large shop. But all his life he had been a scholar and a teacher, with an intimate knowledge of Latin and Greek. He was as ignorant of the proper application of labor to get results from either land or machines. They brought all the way from England a lot of tools where better could have been had here. I helped him some in his planting, his little haying, etc. He had a horse that had not been used much and I think he had never graduated in horse handling as there is no doubt he had in Greek. In the fall of 1850 he was hired to teach the winter school, and that was a job he was surely able to do. He was a scholar, an expert in many branches, a wonderful penman, and in drawing, the picture of any article in view came out at the end of his pencil.

One bright winter morning soon after school opening, a girl came in with a bright smile and elastic step and seated herself by my sister Harriet. I was soon attracted by her handsome appearance, the bright eyes illuminating a very intelligent countenance. At the time I thought her to be some fifteen or sixteen years old, but long years after that I found out she had outstripped her age by several years in height. [The girl was just 10 years old at the time.] After a while I became interested in and inquired her name and obtained it from my seat mate. I also noticed that Mr. Howard was soon attracted to her, giving especial attention that looked very much like partiality. One of the studies she essayed as well as some of the rest of us was drawing. I do not think any of us would ever have produced or created any remarkable result in that direction, but from opportunity to see some of her work afterwards, I am very sure she would never have been able to astound the world with any artistic delineation, and would say here that none of the rest of us would have achieved immortality in that line and for that matter in any other.

What was the attraction that led Mr. Howard from London to Indiana I never knew. He seemed very satisfied with the change and cheerfully accepted the conditions he encountered. He and Father were congenial and often met in social intercourse. He taught but one term there but in the fall following he secured a situation in a military school in Kentucky and soon after left for that purpose. Some correspondence was kept up for a time but afterwards he was changed from the Kentucky Academy to Washington, and now we will bid him good-bye. We heard of him quite often for some time.

By this time I had learned [that] the name of the young miss specialized was Mirinda Piper and that her father was a Baptist minister who I had heard a number of times. He had a circle of churches in his charge, visiting each monthly with two day services Saturday and Sunday. Here I will note what will seem odd, especially in the cities—that the country churches then had two front doors and one back door, and as the congregation arrived, the men entered one door and women the other and took seats apart. In case one wished to leave, as was often the case in the prolonged service, they had the back door by which to escape without disturbing the audience. About the time referred to, Mr. Piper’s congregation, through his supervision, built quite a large building for that time and fashioned as above specified.

The interest Mirinda had aroused in my mind continued, and in later years continued in a union of interests via marriage, and for more than sixty years through sunshine and storm, we have happily passed. We have been blessed with three noble boys, two of whom now minister to our wants and comforts.

Here is Part 2 of the Memoirs of John Andrews.