Bringing to Light the Career and Correspondence of M.R. Harrington

Letter addressed to M.R. Harrington from the Bureau of American Ethnology, 1911.

Museum of the American Indian/Heye Foundation records, NMAI.AC.001, Box 231, Folder 7. 

Though now less well-remembered, M.R., or Mark Raymond, Harrington (1882-1971) was a prominent twentieth-century anthropologist who worked for many of the leading anthropological museums of his day. These included Harvard University’s Peabody Museum, the American Museum of Natural History in New York, the Museum of the American Indian, Heye Foundation (the predecessor to the National Museum of the American Indian or NMAI) also in New York, Philadelphia’s University Museum, and later, from 1928 until his retirement in 1966 at the age of 82, the Southwest Museum in Los Angeles.

M.R. Harrington dressed in Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) clothing, ca. 1905.
Mark Raymond Harrington photograph collection, NMAI.AC.001.035, P28198.

The Smithsonian’s NMAI Archives Center staff consider themselves fortunate to steward such a great extent of Harrington’s archival materials, consisting of his ethnological field notes, object lists, and personal and professional correspondence. For many years these materials have served as an invaluable resource for Native and non-Native researchers, linguistic and language revitalization scholars, and community groups conducting repatriation work. Now, however, as the NMAI makes digital versions of Harrington’s correspondence accessible on the Smithsonian Online Virtual Archives and the Smithsonian’s Transcription Center, an even greater number of interested users can learn about this individual’s important life from the comfort of their own homes.

Born in 1882 and commencing his first anthropological work while still a teenager in the late 1890s, Harrington’s career spanned more than sixty years and encompassed wide swathes of the U.S. and North America. Well-respected for his collecting prowess, in the two decades alone (1908-1928) that he worked for Museum of the American Indian, Heye Foundation, founder George Gustav Heye, Harrington collected ethnological and archaeological material from Canada in the north to Cuba in the south, and from New York in the east to California in the west.

Harrington’s correspondence in particular reflects his work throughout North America and his sustained relationships with anthropological leaders in the field like Franz Boas, Frederic Ward Putnam, and Frank G. Speck, his personal relationships with fellow anthropological colleagues Alanson Skinner and Arthur C. Parker, and his dependence on the knowledge, advice, and friendship of Native American collaborators and interpreters in the field like Peoria leader Bill Skye and Otoe community member Grant Cleghorn.

Peoria chief, interpreter, and collaborator with M.R. Harrington, Bill Skye, 1908.
Collection still undetermined, likely part of the Mark Raymond Harrington photograph collection. NMAI P23479.

Harrington was a product of his time, and though his collecting of material culture items (now referred to as salvage anthropology) may have “saved” countless objects for future generations to admire in a museum setting, his collecting also inadvertently robbed many American Indian communities of their cultural heritage, creating a void in Native American cultural identity which in some cases still persists to the present-day.

Further, like his fellow turn-of-the-twentieth-century anthropologists Frank Hamilton Cushing, James Mooney, and Alanson Skinner, Harrington adhered to the anthropological practice of participant observation. Thus, he often dressed in Native clothing, spoke in Native languages, and referred to himself by his adopted Native names, even when away from Native communities. Harrington and Skinner, however, tended to blur the lines between participant observation and what Philip J. Deloria terms “playing Indian,” in which non-Native peoples simulate and appropriate the customs, manners, and lifeways of Native groups. Temporally removed and lacking Harrington’s personal thoughts on his actions at the time, it is difficult to label his and Skinner’s actions as intentional cultural appropriation, when they may demonstrate nothing more than the passion of two men of Euro-American ancestry interested in learning about other cultures. Regrettably, while Harrington’s correspondence is a treasure trove of information, it reveals little further insight into these men’s perspectives on matters such as this. Importantly though, Native American people were more than simply a subject of study for Harrington. They were integral to his life, his identity, and over time became intimate members of his family including his wife and Seneca community member, Endeka (Edna) Parker.

Mrs. Endeka Parker Harrington (Seneca), Don Chiaku (Hopi Pueblo), and M.R. Harrington dressed in Hopi clothing in Arizona, circa 1930. Mark Raymond Harrington photograph collection, NMAI.AC.001.035, P26879.

Harrington worked with more Native communities, at more museums, and for a longer period of time than many of his colleagues in the anthropological world. His Seneca friend, fellow anthropologist, and brother-in-law Arthur C. Parker called Harrington a devoted friend who defended Native peoples from every angle of attack. More recently, present-day scholar and Abenacki museum anthropologist Margaret Bruchac has praised Harrington as a determined researcher with an inclusive and egalitarian bent who advocated for the place of Native men and women in ethnological and archaeological work.

Despite such praise, M.R. Harrington’s name remains relatively unknown to many both within and outside of the museum field. Hopefully by making Harrington’s personal and professional correspondence more widely available to the public, his inspiring and complicated legacy will better be brought to light.

Nathan Sowry, Reference Archivist
National Museum of the American Indian Archives Center

Reconnecting Through Old Collections: Or, Why You Should Milk the Archives

Of all the pontification, witty lines, and great advice presented in my college speech class, one line stuck with me to this day. Delivered in the midst of an otherwise unmemorable speech, the line was simple and poignant. “Milk your grandparents.” Now, this advice was, it should be made clear, not to be taken literally; rather, he was advising that we, as college students, take time to sit down with our family members, listen to their stories, and, in doing so, make them ours. Much as it was important in the novel The Giver, written by Lois Lowry and published in 1993, this work of transmission, of passing down stories and emotions to the next generation, is still of utmost importance. By keeping our cultural memory alive, we are maintaining that which makes us truly human.

Now, you might ask, what does milking your grandparents have to do with the Smithsonian Institution? Moreover, why is this blog philosophizing about cultural transmission being posted during Archives Month? The answer to this is simple; I am proposing that we, as scholars, historians, and enthusiasts alike should think of archives in much the same way that we do our family’s stories, recognizing that much of their power comes from them staying within the public’s collective memory. In a way, this emphasis on public memory has already been emerging within the museum world, at least among scholars. Frequently, museums and archives, such as those whose collections are highlighted on this blog, are labeled under the broad category of memory institutions. This, however, does not go far enough. To keep something as part of our cultural memory, we must do more than merely preserve artifacts and documents in vaults and basements. Rather, these items need to be regularly accessed, touched, and read for them to continue to be valuable to the nation’s collective understanding of the world and its past. To be honest, this is a task far too big to place on the shoulders of archivists and curators alone—even though they have been doing great work! This work, which I like to call “milking the archives,” is most effectively done by members of the public and others who can ingest these often forgotten stories and, in doing so, return them to the public memory.

To illustrate this, it is helpful to look at the Francis Mair Collection, which several colleagues and I are currently processing. A member of the industrial design firm Landor and Associates, Inc., Francis Mair (or Fran, as he was known), had a keen interest in the history of his craft. This interest would draw him, eventually, to a position at the head of the Landor firm’s Museum of Packaging Antiquities. Housed in Landor and Associates’ unique headquarters (the firm operated many of its executive functions out of a retired steamboat named Klamath, which rested permanently near Pier 5 of San Francisco Bay), the museum collected, often through Mair’s business connections, a large amount of items, recording the history of packaging in the 19th and early 20th centuries.

Documented well, with its story previously told, the museum is not, however, what I seek to highlight; rather, I want to bring forward a story that, even within Smithsonian circles, was forgotten. This story is the collaboration between the late National Museum of American History curator David Shayt and Mair as they worked to build the Museum of Packaging Antiquities.

In this photograph, ca.1990s, used courtesy of Alison Oswald, David Shayt can be seen holding a Holles Allen Experimental Bow, one of the many items he was responsible for acquiring, preserving, and curating at the National Museum of American History.

In processing the Francis Mair Collection, I noticed several letters that were written on letterhead from the Smithsonian Museum of History and Technology (the former name of the National Museum of American History). After looking more closely through the letters, I realized that they spanned several years, starting before David Shayt had been employed by the Smithsonian. In fact, the letters start with a copy of Shayt’s resume, presumably the one with which he applied to work with Mair. Shayt’s resume notes that, even while completing military service abroad, he still found ways to work within the museum field, assisting with several exhibitions.

Resume: David Shayt, ca. 1977. Francis Mair Collection, Archives Center, National Museum of American History.

The letters show a deepening relationship between Shayt and Mair, one in which Shayt, as the younger partner, had much both to learn and to offer. One of the highlights is a unique letter from Mair to Shayt’s parents, noting that David had asked Mair to “express to [Shayt’s parents his] feelings about [David’s] presence here, his activities, and how delighted we are to have him here.” Later in the letter, Mair notes that “the changes for the better that he is making are most welcome to us because we have very little budgetwise to do this sort of thing.”

Letter from Francis Mair to Mr. and Mrs. Shayt, August 10, 1977. Francis Mair Collection, Archives Center, National Museum of American History.

This phrase, “very little budgetwise,” would prove to be the item, however, that Shayt’s father most focused on. Despite noting that “Both Mrs. Shayt and I are . . . happy to hear that David’s contribution is of no small significance,” he would still spend the bulk of his letter struggling openly over his son’s decision to enter the museum field. Writing back, he uses the above quote from Mair’s letter to explain why he “can’t get enthralled at the prospect of David [his son] mapping out for himself a museum career.” In this, Shayt’s father echoes the
questioning that many parents have surely done over the career choices of their children, expressing deep-seated fears about the remuneration provided by various types of work.

Letter from Alvin Shayt to Francis Mair, August 15, 1977. Francis Mair Collection, Archives Center, National Museum of American History.

Another letter, however, tells a far more positive tale. In this letter, written by Shayt to Fran Mair, he tells of his first period of time working with the Smithsonian’s collections. Commenting that he still looks back fondly upon the summer he spent working at the Landor Museum of Packaging Antiquities, he also notes the vast disparity in resources between the two museums, stating “I still feel humbled & a bit intimidated after having left so recently the Packaging Museum.” Beyond this, the letter is warm and kind, noting that despite the weather turning “awfully cold,” he is “still managing to hoof it down to Constitution Ave. to the museum.”

Letter from David Shayt to Francis Mair, November 16, 1977. Francis Mair Collection, Archives Center, National Museum of American History.

Over his career working at the Smithsonian, Shayt would collect, document, and tell many stories, touching a large number of people both within the Archives Center and throughout the Smithsonian Institution. The story of his time with Mair, however, was lost from the collective memory. Only through a series of interactions, of milking the staff of the Archives Center, of milking the documents within the Archives Center, has this chunk of life been brought to life again. This work is what is what I refer to in advocating milking the archives, that of returning good stories back to the forefront of people’s minds.

If you have a desire to keep stories like this one alive, know that the door to the Archives Center is open to any researcher who would like to seek out and retell some of the lost stories and, in doing so, Milk the Archives for all they are worth. For more information on the Francis Mair Collection and all others held by the Archives Center, feel free to head over to our website or send us an email. We would love to hear from you! We only ask that, prior to coming in to research, you make an appointment, so that we can more effectively serve you.

Kevin DeVries, Archives Center Intern
National Museum of American History, Archives Center

Philanthropy in the W. Atlee Burpee & Company Records

The W. Atlee Burpee & Company Records consist of material not only related to the seed wholesaler, but also the personal lives that the Burpee family led. A highlight of this collection thus far is the philanthropic endeavors of W. Atlee and his wife Blanche, their son, David, and his wife, Lois.

I first noticed charitable donations in W. Atlee’s company correspondence. As the head of the company, he received letters from organizations and individuals thanking him for his donations of either seeds or money. I thought they were nothing more than a donation here and there until more evidence of his philanthropy surfaced in his personal papers as well. Now, having processed a significant portion of the collection, I see these letters much differently. Rather than a few isolated examples of charity, these letters represent an essential characteristic of the Burpee family and Burpee Company legacy.

Two photographs captioned “5 dispensary patients” and “a view on the Tenga Poni River,” which accompanied a letter sent to W. Atlee Burpee by H. W. Kirby in 1912. Kirby worked for the American Baptist Foreign Mission Society and was stationed in Sadiya, India when he wrote the letter thanking W. Atlee for donating seeds for the mission’s garden. Smithsonian Gardens, Archives of American Gardens, W. Atlee Burpee & Company Records.

With little information discovered (so far) regarding W. Atlee’s and Blanche’s upbringing, it is difficult to know whether involvement in philanthropic organizations was a part of their lives from a young age. We do know that W. Atlee came from a family of doctors. Although he left the study of that profession to enter the seed business, it appears that helping others remained a part of his life’s work.

W. Atlee made small gifts as both a private individual, and on behalf of his company, to a variety of organizations. His donations were directed mostly towards religiously-affiliated charities, but local hospitals and schools were also recipients. In addition to these donations (usually five to ten dollars each), W. Atlee was also a trustee of the Howard Hospital and the Sanitarium Association—both organizations designed to provide medical treatment for lower-class families in the Philadelphia area. These organizations required more dedication—of both energy and money—from W. Atlee. In 1914-1915 he served on Howard Hospital’s building and publicity committees, and had a donation annuity plan set up for $1,000 per year.

For Blanche, her major philanthropic project was to erect a neighborhood park in their hometown of Doylestown, Pennsylvania. Within the park’s charter it mentions: “for the purpose and desire to advance the general welfare, improvement, enjoyment and health of, and their good will towards the children of the Borough of Doylestown…” The park is still there today and known as Burpee Park. In addition to the park, and much like her husband, Blanche also made donations to local schools and charities. A 1912 letter discussing her and W. Atlee’s magazine subscriptions, for example, reveals that Blanche annually supplied Doylestown High School with copies of Harper’s Weekly.

Original charter for the Blanche Burpee Public Playground in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, 1913. “Blanche Burpee Playground, 1913.” Smithsonian Gardens, Archives of American Gardens, W. Atlee Burpee & Company Records.

Just as innovative advertising and plant hybridization—the Burpee modus operandi—were built upon under David’s tutelage, so too was philanthropy. A Christmas article published in the Philadelphia Record in 1918 spoke of a twenty-five-year-old David Burpee continuing the Burpee Company’s Christmas tradition. For each employee: one box of cigars, ten pounds of candy, a $5 gold piece, and a bonus. For the children fortunate enough to sign up in advance—1,800 of them that year— they had the choice of either a box of candy or a “bright new quarter.” David continued to donate to and support various causes over the next half-century including efforts during both World Wars, donations to the Red Cross, university scholarship endowments, and other human welfare projects.

As for David’s wife, Lois, we know she was born into a family of humanitarians. Both of her parents were missionary doctors in Palestine when she was born there in 1912. Lois and David were both on the board of the Pearl S. Buck Foundation since that organization’s inception in 1964. The foundation was created by the Nobel- and Pulitzer-winning Buck to support impoverished children in Asian countries. Lois ultimately received the Pearl S. Buck Woman’s Award in 1980. The organization is still around today, working on projects to establish clean water and sanitation in Thailand, provide skill training for mothers in the Philippines, dental treatment for children in Vietnam, and much more. Lois was involved in local charities as well—a few examples include her support to establish thrift shops and a kindergarten, and her position on the board of the Bucks County Mental Health Society.

Philanthropic undertakings seem to have been deeply embedded in the Burpee name, and its legacy continued even after David sold the company in 1980. The company made a large donation to CARE (Cooperative for Assistance and Relief Everywhere) in 1998, and has more recently donated to the White House Kitchen Garden, helped plant community gardens in honor of National Child Abuse Prevention Month, and provided a $75,000 grant for a symposium titled ‘Energy in Transition’ held at Delaware Valley University in Doylestown, Pennsylvania—the original home of the W. Atlee Burpee Company.

Chris Demairo, Intern

Archives of American Gardens

Processing the Burpee Company Records, Part Two

My ‘archival expectations’ began once I was informed by the Smithsonian’s Archives of American Gardens that I would be processing a seed company’s collection. I figured I would find business records—office files, formal correspondence, personnel and financial records, and contracts. What I was not expecting, however, was a surprisingly large amount of family papers.

For me, the most exciting part about working with personal papers is reading into the social life these people lived; especially of those similar to my age (25). Reading about good times had with family and friends is an enjoyable aspect of working on personal collections. Rarely, however, do personal collections that span generations not mention death, and this is a reality an archivist must anticipate. My time with the Burpee Company Collection has been nothing short of an intellectual and emotional roller coaster: one day going through tax forms and marketing files, the next a box full of correspondence introducing me to a very personal side of the Burpee family.

On a Wednesday, I came across a box of David Burpee’s papers (most likely compiled shortly before he took over the management of the company), which slowly crept up on the dates surrounding the death of his father, W. Atlee, in 1915. David was 22. That summer he traveled through New England—golfing and swimming with family and friends, while simultaneously seeking potential brides (he kept a close eye on newspapers, noting every debutante that caught his interest.)

Photograph from a summer canoe outing in Camden, Maine, 1915.

Newspaper clipping of image of Miss Margaret Gray of Girard Farms.

It is amazing how much I can relate to the joy in his adventures with friends and family. But as I read on, the letters took a dark turn, and the content quickly shifted from joyous vacations to his father’s poor health. The humanity and compassion within the correspondence jumped out at me. One can imagine the feeling as David Burpee read letters sent from family and friends who knew he were by the side of his ailing father.

Letter from Aunt Maggie to David Burpee regarding the illness of W. Atlee Burpee, October 25, 1915.

Just two days after working on documents that surrounded W. Atlee’s death, I was working on documents from 1980 approaching David’s death. The box was filled with happy remembrances; composed of documents related to Lois Burpee, David’s wife, and the writing of her garden cookbook, Lois Burpee’s Gardener’s Companion and Cookbook. Newspaper clippings, book reviews, congratulatory letters, and manuscript drafts made up the majority of the material. It appears Lois began working on her book in the early 1970s, but by the time she became more involved with its writing, her husband was ill. David died in June, 1980, at the age of 87. As I went through this box, I came across stacks of newspaper clippings and book reviews, and then another stack of obituaries and memorials. It was a bittersweet juxtaposition.

The fact that this collection includes far more than company records is partly due to who this family was. They were caring, hardworking and intelligent; their company was a vital part of who they were as people. The Burpee Company Collection thus offers insight into not only how a business of this magnitude operated under two generations of one family for nearly a century, but also demonstrates who these people truly were.

Chris DeMairo, Intern
Archives of American Gardens

Message in a Box

The Freer | Sackler Archives is blessed to have many wonderful volunteers.  Many have been working for the archives for years. They all have collections that they come in every week to work on and care for.  One volunteer, the lovely Charlene, has been work on the Pauline B. and Myron S. Falk, Jr. Papers for several years. She is currently organizing all of the Falk correspondence. Recently, she stumbled upon some truly wonderful letters both sent and received by the Falks.  

They are filled with humor, life, and wonderful use of language.  One can’t help but stop to hear what neat letter Charlene has found on a particular day.  You get the impression that the Falks were warm, intelligent, and entertaining people to be around.

Pauline Falk worked with the Lincoln School for many years.

These letters have given us something more precious that a window into the Falks lives.  They have given us an idea of how diversely and uniquely individuals expressed themselves to one another. You can picture the people writing these letters as if they are in the room.  Furthermore, it reminds us how fun, complex, and different the English language can be.  

Excerpt from Mrs. Pauline Falk's 50th High School Reunion.   It took place in 1978 for the class of 1928.  Several of the classmates could not attend the reunion, but then sent delightful notes to be read at the reunion.

In yet another way, it makes us more aware that the art of letter writing is dying. We have email. We have Facebook. We have Twitter.  We have an endless amount of devices to keep us connected.   We communicate instantly and uniquely, but in a different more abrupt way.

The written word seems to be fighting a losing battle in the war of communication.   This is an era of abbreviated thought, where pausing to contemplate and write a personal letter and send it seems as foreign as an alien planet.

Letter thanking Pauline Falk for all her dedicated service to the Lincoln School, 1953.

Of course, email can be and is used to write thoughtful letters, but more often than not, the language of email seems to have given way to short perfunctory business sentences.  The idea of allowing one’s thoughts to wander deeply before putting words down is almost lost.

Perhaps we should all take the time to pause and breathe before we write and send our next email (or, perhaps, even a physical letter) to a friend.

Lara Amrod
Freer|Sackler Archives

Civil War Decision Makers: John W. Garrett Commits the B&O

Executive decision-making has been much in the news.

John Work Garrett, 1820-1884

During the Civil War, John W. Garrett, President of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, made a crucial business decision which affected the course of the war.  Despite being personally sympathetic to the Confederate cause, with Jubal Early’s men circling north toward Martinsburg and Cumberland and threatening the B&O, on February 1, 1864, Garrett wrote to Abraham Lincoln’s Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton, offering the services of his railroad to transport Union troops:

“…Immediate re-inforcements [sic] appear to be required. I have ordered vigorous preparations to be made for the transportation of troops from Washington and Baltimore…”

Letter from John Work Garrett to Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton, Feb. 1, 1864.
From the Baltimore & Ohio Records, Misc. Correspondence, Box 2, Folder 10.
Archives Center, National Museum of American History

Choosing the winning side facilitated the B & O’s post-war success in retrieving property stolen by Confederate troops.  As the Confederates circled north they were amazed to find fourteen locomotives in the B & O sheds in Martinsburg, West Virginia. A handwritten manuscript in our B & O Records entitled “The Baltimore and Ohio Railroad: Adventures of A Railroad During the Civil War” tells the story:

Locomotives Moved Over Turnpike Roads to Richmond

The Confederates had almost undisturbed possession of 100 miles of the [rail]road west of Harpers Ferry, during which time they destroyed all the bridges between that place and Cumberland, and took up and removed to Richmond the iron rails of 40 miles of the track. They also conveyed to Richmond 14 valuable locomotives, in perfect order, which they found in the company’s repair shops at Martinsburg. They accomplished this novel task with extraordinary perseverance and great mechanical skill, as they had to transport these heavy locomotives over the turnpike roads on their own wheels to Strasburg, a distance of fully 40 miles.

According to the B & O Engine Shop Records, the company got twelve of the fourteen locomotives back in 1865:

 “All 12 captured locos back in shop. 2 never returned 34 and 50.”

Christine Windheuser, Volunteer, Archives Center, National Museum of American History

The Story of a Company

This October, the Smithsonian Collections Blog is celebrating American Archives Month with a month-long blogathon! We will be posting new content almost every weekday with the theme Discover and Connect. See additional posts from our other participating blogs, as well as related events and resources, on the Smithsonian’s Archives Month website.

Many long lasting companies have unique stories scattered throughout their history, but the success of a company is often from the loyalty of its customers. The W. Atlee Burpee & Company was created by W. Atlee Burpee in 1876 as a mail order poultry business, turning into a successful seed company as an international seller of seeds in the early twentieth century. The Burpee Company gained attention for not only the seeds it sold, but the successful results of its products, gaining loyal customers in return.

Original flyer posting the rules and prizes for the 1924 contest. W. Atlee Burpee & Company Collection, 
Archives of American Gardens, Smithsonian Institution.

In 1924, the Burpee Company launched a prize-contest to recognize its faithful customers by asking them to write “What Burpee’s Seeds Have Done for Me.” Thousands entered for cash prizes by sending letters and photographs to the Philadelphia offices of the Burpee Company. Entries came from all over the world, written by those young and old, to express the impact of these special seeds in their lives. The letters tell the story of the Burpee Company. See more in previous post Seed Stories.

The Archives of American Gardens has an extensive collection of W. Atlee Burpee & Company materials, including a number of these letters from the 1924 contest. As part of a new project with the Smithsonian Transcription Center, these letters are being made viewable for everyone to learn more about the Burpee Company. With the contest closing in August of 1924, all of these letters are ninety years old and capture the history of Americans (and Canadians too) who often found pride and hope in their gardens through Burpee’s seeds.

A sampling of the letters from the 1924 contest.

As the letters are added to the Transcription Center please help us transcribe them! Through your help, we can further the story of the Burpee Company and also understand the impact of gardening in the early twentieth century. Many of these letters express the financial need of gardening or describe the joy of finding the best fruits and vegetables in one’s own backyard. Yet almost every letter offers the same praise, affirming the motto that “Burpee’s seeds grow.”

Catherine Bell
Summer 2014 Intern
Archives of American Gardens

Joshua Slocum and the Smithsonian

Announcement for a Slocum lecture at Everett House, New York (undated; NAA INV 02881600, photo lot 70, National Anthropological Archives, Smithsonian Institution)

Every now and then, maritime historians of the National Museum of American History have to
address the belief that the vessel Liberdade of renowned sailor, Joshua Slocum (1844-1908?*), is buried in storage somewhere in the Smithsonian. Slocum designed and built the boat following the wreck of the Aquidneck, his coastal trading bark, which left him, his wife and two sons stranded in South America. Using lumber and fastenings salvaged from the wreck, and local timber, he built a 35-foot-long, six-ton, sea-going canoe, beam of seven and a half feet and draft of three feet. The small cabin, covered only by a canvas tarp, was home to the Slocum family for the entire voyage of an incredible 5,500 miles. Liberdade journeyed from Brazil ending up the Potomac River in Washington, D.C., of all places, in 1888.

Slocum's model for the boat came from his memory of the Cape Ann dories of New England, modified by a photo he had on hand of a Japanese sampan. "As might be expected, when finished, she resembled both types of vessels in some degree" he wrote. He rigged the boat in the Chinese sampan style, "which is, I consider, the most convenient boat rig in the entire world.” His wife made the sails.

Liberdade, built with local help and launched on the day slaves were declared free in Brazil (hence the name) was indeed exhibited for a time at the Smithsonian. But first, after wintering in the nation’s capital (until 1889), the family made their way up to New York and then on to New England, receiving much attention all along with way for their adventure. Slocum, his career as a commercial captain over after a series of mishaps and outright disasters, wrote about the journey as a means to support his family. Slocum brought the Liberdade back to Washington, keen on self-promotion, leaving the unique vessel to be viewed, outdoors. With the pressing need for space due to rapidly growing collections and not wanting to destroy the deteriorating boat (despite the Captain’s permission), Smithsonian officials urged Slocum to return to Washington to take re-possession. In December 1906, he brought the Liberdade—beginning to rot away although the Captain intended to save the planks and rib to rebuild—to a boatyard on the Potomac River. Some pieces were given away to spectators but no relic is currently identified, anywhere, including the Smithsonian collections. And no record of the last of the Liberdade is known. As it happens, there is not even a cataloged copy of Slocum’s account of the journey, The Voyage of the Liberdade (Boston, 1890) in the Smithsonian Libraries.

Collection of the author

There are, however, other tangible objects in various Smithsonian collections associated with Slocum most famously the first to circumnavigate the globe single-handedly. Links to this important figure in maritime and literary history can be readily found thanks to catalogs and online databases from sources both within and outside the Institution, with their relevant information and images. They provide a fuller picture of the Captain – or at least of this  curious and remarkable episode with a boat he made himself.

In the age of the decline of sail, Slocum left Boston in April 1895 on the Spray, a rebuilt and entirely reconfigured oyster sloop. A superb sailor and navigator, he had 46,000 miles under Spray’s keel when he completed his astounding circumnavigation in Newport, Rhode Island, and then onto his home port in Fairhaven, Massachusetts in June and early July of 1898.

Front cover of the Cullman Library's copy

From this epic voyage, Slocum penned that classic of travel literature and adventure, Sailing Alone Around the World. It is a lyrical book, and the 37-foot Spray, is a trusted companion throughout:

March 31 the fresh southeast wind had come to stay. The Spray was running under a single-reefed mainsail, a whole jib, and a flying-jib besides, set on the Vailima bamboo, while I was reading Stevenson’s delightful ‘Inland Voyage.’ The sloop was again doing her work smoothly, hardly rolling at all, but just leaping along among the white horses, a thousand gamboling porpoises keeping her company on all sides.

Title page with Professor Mason's signature

The story was initially published in serial form from September 1899 to March 1900 in The Century Magazine; the first edition of Sailing Alone Around the World came out in 1900. Having read the book only in paperback form, I was delighted to catalog the 1900 imprint in the Cullman Library (G440.S628 1900 SCNHRB). It was a presentation from the author to his friend Otis Tufton Mason (1838-1908), Curator of Ethnology at the Smithsonian, who helped to have Slocum take away the Liberdade. Unlike Slocum’s previous writings, Sailing Alone was a great success and still resonates, beloved of maritime writers and "live-aboards".

Photograph courtesy of The Millicent Library, Fairhaven, Massachusetts

Sailing Alone was a best seller and made the captain a celebrity. For a fee, rather sadly, Slocum had the Spray hauled up the Hudson River and Erie Canal to Buffalo, New York for the extravagant Pan-American Exposition of 1901, to capitalize on his hard-won popularity. As related to Mason, Slocum intended to refit the Liberdade with an engine for the towing to Buffalo but couldn’t manage to get to Washington in time. For this World’s Fair, a “Special Pan American Edition” of Sailing Alone was issued and his wife, Henrietta Slocum, produced a pamphlet, Sloop Spray Souvenir, with a piece of the boat’s mainsail tipped-in. Despite the dozens and dozens of printed materials from the Pan-American Exposition, Sloop Spray Souvenir is not in the Smithsonian Libraries’ collections. There is a copy of this rare title nearby though, in Georgetown University’s Special Collections archives.  

The Millicent Library's copy with a fragment of Spray's sail

Card catalog in the National Anthropological Archives

Slocum returned to Washington in early 1902 when he went to the White House to talk to President Theodore Roosevelt of his adventures. Carried back on the Spray during that trip are a few items now in the Anthropology Department of the National Museum of Natural History: stone and shell axes, one procured from a “colonial resident” in New South Wales, Australia, and another from (perhaps) New Guinea. These artifacts were probably presented by Slocum to Mason, who, along with George Brown Goode, did much to reorganize and display the collections in the then-new United States National Museum. Despite lacking much of a formal education in his native Nova Scotia, Slocum likely sensed a kindred spirit in Mason, who was born nearby, in the remote seafaring islands of Eastport, Maine (although he did not grow up there) and their shared interest in anthropology.  

Otis Tufton Mason (photo Wikimedia Commons, originally from Popular Science Monthly, vol. 74, January 1909)

Captain Slocum and Group of Gilbert Islanders (undated photograph by Merritt & Van Wagner; NAA INV 05048400, National Anthropological Archives, Smithsonian Institution)

But another, later Smithsonian curator, Howard I. Chapelle (1901-1975), was among Slocum’s critics and suggested that Sailing Alone was ghost-written. Slocum had earlier publications, long before his fame, including Rescuing Some Natives of the Gilbert Islands in 1883 (VK1424 .G46 S63 ANTH). Although largely self-educated, Slocum was well-read (his publisher stocked a library on Spray) and it is hard to imagine that the good humor and dry wit of his descriptions, where the ocean is never portrayed with malice, could have any author other than Slocum.

Chapelle was a nautical architect and in the abstract for the catalog record on the thorny “Constellation Question” is described as “as straightforward as he is learned” (SILSRO 113108). The author of several works, including American Small Sailing Craft (1951; VM351 .C481 NMAH), Chapelle sought to show that Spray could be easily capsized and not be righted if rolled. However, he found in his analysis that she was stable in most conditions.

There are other associations of Captain Slocum’s in the Smithsonian. The Botany Department has at least one specimen from his various nautical wanderings: Encycliakingsii (C.D. Adams) Nir (Caribbean). He had presented President Roosevelt with a rare orchid before taking the President's son, Archibald, sailing on Spray from Oyster Bay, Long Island. Impressed with the child's natural nautical talent, Slocum later considering presenting Archie with the Liberdade (wherever it was at that time). And as quoted in the biography, The Hard Way Around, Slocum wrote the Smithsonian a letter of February 1901 "requesting that if and when a 'flying ship' were launched, 'I could have a second mates position on it to soar.'" With his circumnavigation, he had already helped shrink the world.

Frontispiece of Sailing Alone (Cullman Library copy)
Illustrations in this first edition are by Thomas Fogarty and George Varian

Slocum never flew and his story does not end well. Black clouds and legal troubles followed him through life; sadness and despair could only be managed at sea. Trying to settle in a house and farm on Martha’s Vineyard after his circumnavigation, Slocum was soon restless and embarked on shorter solo trips. Inevitably, he set off again in 1908, both he and Spray deteriorating, with the intention of sailing to South America to find the source of the Amazon. Neither was seen again.

Julia Blakely
Smithsonian Libraries

*Slocum's death date is often cited as 1909, when he was legally declared dead. See Geoffrey Wolff's The Hard Way Around (New York, 2010; p. 212) for why the date should be 1908.